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CYNTHIA   IN    THE    WILDERNESS 


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A  Woman  of  Uncertain  Age 

By  MARY  ANNE  BERRY 

After  The  Pardon 

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The  Isle  of  Temptation 

By  ARTHUR  STANLEY  COLLETON 

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CYNTHIA  IN  THE 
WILDERNESS 


BY 

HUBERT    WALES 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  YOKE,"    "MR  AND  MRS  VILLIERS* 


NEW   YORK 

THE   STUYVESANT   PRESS 

1909 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 
THE  STUYVESANT  PRESS 

NEW  YORK 


D.  E.  W. 
Who  knows  more  about  "Bay"  than  the  Author 


S138826 


FOREWORD 

IN  Cynthia  in  the  Wilderness  Mr.  Hubert 
Wales  (whose  earnest  and  virile  treatment  of  the 
problems  of  sex  the  American,  like  the  British  pub- 
lic, has  now  so  heartily  endorsed)  attacks  the  cen- 
tral citadel  of  smug  and  unintelligent  convention. 
He  fearlessly  exposes  the  average  male  immorality 
that  divides  women  into  two  classes — one  above, 
the  other  below  the  healthy  level  of  the  normally 
human. 

Cynthia's  husband  strikingly  exemplifies  this 
egregious  male  who  considers  his  wife  a  valuable 
ornament  and  a  symbol  of  respectability  and  seeks 
the  satisfaction  of  his  "coarser"  proclivities  be- 
yond the  boundaries  of  the  social  pale.  Once  she 
protests  and  her  husband  has  the  indescribable  in- 
solence to  be — shocked.  No  one  who  contemplates 
with  clear  vision  the  baffling  comedy  of  conven- 
tional society  will  fail  to  accord  to  Mr.  Wales's 
presentment  of  his  case  the  high  praise  of  essen- 
tial truth. 

vu 


viii  FOREWORD 

Nor  does  he  palter  with  the  inevitable  results  of 
such  a  union.  Cynthia,  freed  from  the  trammels 
of  that  mockery  which  she  must  call  her  marital 
home,  meets  a  man  in  whom,  as  in  herself,  passion 
and  intellect  blend  and  interpenetrate  each  other  to 
the  formation  of  that  harmonious  human  charac- 
ter which,  since  the  flowering  of  Hellenic  culture, 
the  best  minds  have  ever  sought  for  and  admired. 

And  this  is,  after  all,  the  ideal  which  Mr.  Wales 
upholds  in  his  drastic  narratives.  In  The  Yoke  he 
pleads  for  the  primal  right  of  passion  as  a  legiti- 
mate element  in  human  character;  in  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Villiers  for  its  recognition  in  the  basic  rela- 
tion of  marriage  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
man;  in  Cynthia  in  the  Wilderness  he  presents  the 
case  of  the  woman.  He  protests  here,  as  always, 
against  the  impurity  of  secretiveness,  of  that  ap- 
parently perennial  falsehood  which,  striving  to 
throttle  or  dismiss  the  most  imperious  of  human 
desires,  serves  only  to  pervert  and  degrade  it. 

This  protest  he  voices  once  more  in  the  last 
member  of  his  trilogy  of  novels,  and  voices  it  not 
only  with  extraordinary  fearlessness  and  frankness, 
but  with  an  even  higher  measure  of  dramatic 
power  and  truth. 


Cynthia  in  the  Wilderness 

CHAPTER  I 

"A  YOUNG  widow  must  remarry,"  said  Mrs. 
Montressor,  decidedly. 

"Then  why  don't  you,  Bay?"  said  Mrs.  Elwes, 
settling  the  cushions  in  her  chair. 

"I  intend  to;  but  give  me  time.  Oh,  to  live  like 
this  for  the  remainder  of  my  life!"  she  concluded, 
with  an  expressive  little  shudder  of  disgust. 

"It  is  all  very  well  for  you1  to  talk  glibly  in  that 
way ;  you  have  a  good  income  and  no  children ;  you 
will  probably  be  able  to  do  as  you  like.  But  sup- 
posing it  were  some  one  in  a  different  position? 
Supposing  there  were  some  insuperable  obstacle? 
What  then?" 

"In  that  case,"  said  Bay,  "she  would  either  die, 
or — or " 

"Or  she  wouldn't?" 

"Or  she  wouldn't,"  said  Bay. 

Cynthia  Elwes  suddenly  lifted  her  dark  eyes  and 
I 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

looked  at  her  friend  intently.    "Do  you  really  be- 
lieve that?" 

"Yes." 

"In  every  case  ?" 

"In  nearly  every  case." 

Cynthia  laughed.  "You  are  uncommonly 
sweeping,  Bay." 

"I'm  merely  judging  from  how  the  matter  ap- 
peals to  me  personally,  and  I  don't  think  I  am  con- 
stitutionally vicious." 

It  was  late  in  the  evening,  and  the  two  women 
were  sitting  alone  in  Cynthia's  little  drawing-room 
in  Neville  Road.  Painters  had  made  Bay's  flat 
uninhabitable  for  the  time  being,  and  her  friend 
had  given  her  a  refuge. 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,"  said  the  latter, 
after  a  pause,  during  which  she  had  been  gazing 
meditatively  at  her  pointed  shoes,  "that  you  might 
marry  and  yet  find  your  lot  very  little  different 
from  what  it  is  at  present?" 

"I  have  tried  both,"  said  Bay,  with  decision, 
"and  I  don't  agree  with  you." 

"You  were  fortunate." 

The  remark,  uttered  in  a  low  tone,  was  in  the 
nature  of  a  reflective  commentary,  scarcely  in- 
tended to  reach  Bay's  ears.  But  the  latter  was 
sufficiently  sharp  to  catch  it. 


"I  don't  deny  it,"  she  said;  "but  why  do  you 
tell  me  so?" 

She  was  not  inquisitive.  She  had  a  motive  in 
pressing  the  point.  These  two  had  been  friends 
since  their  school-days,  and  had  been  wont  to  treat 
one  another  with  complete  spontaneousness.  Cyn- 
thia's marriage,  six  years  ago,  had  marked  the 
beginning  of  a  gradual,  almost  imperceptible, 
change  in  those  easy  relations.  A  slight  reserve 
had  grown  up  on  her  side — a  reserve  which  for  the 
very  fact  that  it  was  not  natural  to  her,  but  was 
obviously  forced  upon  herself  for  a  definite  reason, 
was  all  the  more  keenly  felt.  Bay's  faculties  were 
far  too  wide  awake,  her  native  observation  was 
far  too  shrewd,  for  her  to  be  blind  to  the  general 
nature  of  that  reason;  and  she  cared  not  a  straw 
for  particulars  as  mere  information.  Idle  outside 
gossip,  however  well  authenticated,  she  would 
have  spurned.  But  she  wanted  Cynthia  to  trust 
her.  She  knew  the  value  of  a  confidante  in  secret 
trouble,  she  knew  her  own  discretion,  and,  above 
all,  she  longed  to  break  through  the  barrier — 
though  it  were  but  a  gauze  one  without  substance 
— which  had  come  between  herself  and  her  friend. 
Spontaneousness,  openness,  straightforwardness 
were  of  the  very  air  she  breathed.  In  an  atmos- 
phere containing  anything  inimical  to  those  ideas 
she  stifled  and  became  unhappy. 

3 


We  will  say  here,  lest  we  forget  to  say  it  at  all, 
that  her  baptismal  name  was  not  "Bay,"  but 
"Mary."  The  short  appellation  had  originally 
been  bestowed  upon  her  by  her  own  tiny  lips  at  the 
age  of  one,  which  could  get  no  nearer  a  satisfactory 
pronunciation  of  the  word  "Baby,"  and  had  clung 
to  her  ever  since.  And  somehow,  though  she  was 
now  nearly  thirty  and  had  been  through  wifehood 
and  two  years  of  widowhood,  and  was  an  intensely 
independent  and  determined  person  to  boot,  she 
still  seemed  well  fitted  by  the  childish  name. 

She  was  not  pretty,  and  no  one  was  more  fully 
aware  of  the  fact  than  herself.  She  was  fond  of 
relating  that  her  husband  had  told  her,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  connubial  candour,  that  she  had  pretty 
ears  and  that  those  were  the  only  redeeming  fea- 
tures of  an  otherwise  plain  face.  Rather  small, 
with  a  neat,  compact  figure,  her  face  was  too  square 
and  set  for  beauty,  and  her  cheeks  had  too  high  a 
colour.  Her  features  more  easily  put  on  an  expres- 
sion of  severity  than  of  softness,  and  her  manner 
was  inclined  to  be  brusque;  characteristics  which 
led  many  a  casual  acquaintance  to  miss  the  deep 
tenderness  and  intense  capacity  to  feel  which  un- 
derlay her  exterior. 

Cynthia  Elwes  was  as  unlike  Bay  in  outward 
appearance  as  she  was  like  her  in  many  essential 
qualities.  In  the  first  place,  she  was  tall;  in  the 

4 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

second  place,  she  was  pale  and  dark — her  hair, 
almost  black,  waved  loosely  over  her  temples  from 
an  unobtrusive  division  in  the  centre;  in  the  third 
place,  she  was  beautiful.  Her  beauty  was  not  of 
the  type  which  impels  recognition  at  the  first 
glance:  it  grew  upon  you.  You  would  admit  her, 
to  be  striking,  but  you  would  probably  deny  her, 
absolute  beauty  until  you  knew  her  well,  perhaps 
until  you  had  gained  her  friendship.  But  having 
once  conceded  it,  you  would  concede  it  without  re- 
serve and  with  enthusiasm. 

A  certain  air  of  dilettante  ease  when  reclining 
in  a  low  chair,  as  at  present,  gave  her  a  fallacious 
appearance  of  languor;  and  the  same  effect  was 
produced  by  a  slight  tendency  to  stoop  when  she 
walked.  It  disappeared  immediately  she  was 
aroused  or  interested,  leaving  you  in  no  doubt  of 
the  innate  fire  and  energy  and  ebullient  life  which 
pervaded  her. 

She  looked  at  the  clock  when  Bay  put  her  ques- 
tion. She  had  looked  at  it  once  or  twice  before. 
It  was  a  quarter  past  eleven.  Then  she  said  sud- 
denly : 

'Bay,  do  you  suppose  I  am  happy?" 

A  simple  question;  but  it  broke  the  ice  of  six 
years. 

Bay  replied  without  making  it  apparent  in  her 
voice  that  she  recognised  that  fact..  "I  have  never 

Si 


CYNTHIA  IN,  THE  WILDERNESS 

supposed  that  your  marriage  was  an  ideal  one,"  she 
said.  "I  didn't  think  so  on  the  day  you  made  it. 
But  it  was  quite  a  voluntary  one,  and  you  are  not 
a  fool.  So  I  have  always  assumed  that  there  must 
be  something  in — in  Mr.  Elwes  that  is  hidden  from 
me." 

"Deliciously  Bayish!"  said  Cynthia,  smiling. 
"No  one  else  in  the  world  would  have  said  that — 
quite  like  that.  Can  you  see  no  redeeming  feature 
in  Harvey?" 

"Can  you?" 

"My  dear  girl,  don't  tell  me  what  you  think  of 
me  quite  so  plainly.  You  may  be  justified,  but  it 
isn't  kind.  And,  after  all,  there  is  something  to  be 
said  for  me.  Harvey  has  a  pleasant  exterior  and 
some  likeable  superficial  qualities;  I  was  only 
twenty,  and  I  thought  I  was  in  love  with  him." 

"When  I  was  twenty  I  thought  I  was  in  love  a 
good  many  times,"  said  Bay. 

"Yes,  but  you  always  had  an  irritating  habit  of 
being  guided  to  some  extent  by  reason;  which  no 
woman  has  any  right  to  be — certainly  not  at 
twenty." 

She  put  out  a  slim  hand  and  began  playing  with 
the  articles  on  a  small  silver  table  beside  her. 

"I  feel  an  inclination  to  talk  to  you  to-night, 
Bay,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "I  must  talk  to 
somebody  sometime — I  can't  cork  myself  up  for 

6 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

ever  and  ever — and  you  are  such  a  dear,  safe 
being." 

"I  want  you  to,"  said  Bay;  "I  don't  care  about 
what  you  have  to  say,  but  I  want  you  to  talk  to 


me." 


Cynthia  again  looked  at  the  clock. 

"Harvey  is  not  coming  home  to-night,"  she  said 
abruptly. 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Intuition  and  a  knowledge  of  his  habits.  If  he 
doesn't  come  before  twelve,  he  doesn't  come  at  all. 
He  is  ashamed  of  himself  in  the  small  hours.  He 
will  say  the  cabman  lost  his  way  and  took  him  to 
Clapham ;  he  thinks  no  excuse  is  too  idiotic  for  me 
to  accept." 

Bay  affected  no  surprise.  "Where  will  he  go 
instead?" 

"To-day  is  his  golf  day — one  of  his  golf  days," 
meditated  Cynthia.  "Either  his  friends  there  have 
thought  it  best  not  to  send  him  home,  or — or " 

"Never  mind,"  said  Bay. 

"Oh,  of  course  he  is  not  faithful,"  said  Cynthia. 
"But  such  is  his  placid  belief  in  the  abysmal  sim- 
plicity of  women  that  he  thinks  I  don't  know." 

"I  don't  mean,"  she  went  on,  "that  anyone  has 
supplanted  me  in  his  affections.  No  one  is  likely 
to  do  that :  he  has  put  me  on  the  top  of  a  pedestal 
and  approaches  me  on  his  knees.  His  idea  of  a 

z 


CYNTHIA  IN.  THE  WILDERNESS 

wife  is  of  some  delicate  piece  of  bric-a-brac,  to  be 
kept  in  a  glass  case  and  worshipped  from  afar. 
Meanwhile  he  feeds  on  scraps  by  the  roadside." 

She  had  spoken  quite  quietly,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone  touched  with  a  faint  note  of  cynicism,  leaning 
back  idly  in  her  chair.  Bay,  however,  had  been 
working  up  to  a  state  of  intense  indignation. 

"Cynthia,  why  don't  you  boil?"  she  cried. 

"I  have  too  strong  a  sense  of  humour,"  said 
Cynthia.  "Through  all,  he  is  so  ridiculously  mild 
and  harmless.  There  is  not  enough  malice  or  pur- 
pose or — or  backbone  in  anything  he  does  to  make 
one  angry.  He  would  never  intentionally  do  me 
an  injury.  His  heart  is  as  soft  as  putty.  He  sim- 
ply lacks  ballast — and  sense." 

"But  he  drinks,"  said  Bay,  with  disgust. 

"Weakly,  foolishly,  stupidly.  He  often  makes 
me  ashamed  of  him,  but  he  will  never  be  a  hopeless 
drunkard.  That  makes  it  worse,  in  a  way.  He 
can't  even  plead  a  hereditary  taint.  With  him  it 
is  not  a  disease,  it's  a  pastime." 

"And  he  is  consistently  unfaithful,"  insisted  Bay. 

"Oh,  he  is  quite  capable  of  thinking  that  in  that 
he  is  even  doing  me  a  service — saving  me  from  the 
grossnesses  of  life — preserving  the  sanctity  of  my 
glass  case."  She  finished  with  a  short  laugh. 

Bay  moved  her  chair  and  came  closer.  "Are 
you  really  serious,  Cynthia?" 

8 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Good  gracious,  yes,"  said  Cynthia.  uOn  the 
very  rare  occasions  when  it  occurs  to  him  to  re- 
member our  relation,  he  opens  the  door  of  my  case 
apologetically,  takes  me  out  for  a  few  moments 
with  scrupulously  careful  fingers,  and  places  me 
back  again  with  renewed  apologies — for  months, 
possibly  for  a  year  or  two.  It  makes  me  think  of 
those  people  who  have  an  everyday  set  of  china, 
and  a  'best'  set,  which  they  keep  to  look  at.  I  am 
the  'best'  set." 

"How  can  I  do  anything  but  laugh  at  a  man 
like  that?"  she  asked  calmly. 

"But  he  does  me  one  injury,"  she  cried  the  next 
moment,  with  a  first  flash  of  bitterness,  "and  that  is 
a  perpetual  one :  he  exists." 

Suddenly  she  started  up  in  her  chair,  her  eyes 
flaming.  "You  say  a  young  widow  must  marry 
again."  She  turned  on  Bay  almost  fiercely.  "What 
am /to  do?" 

Bay  made  no  reply;  indeed,  none  was  expected. 
Cynthia's  gust  of  emotion  passed  as  quickly  as  it 
had  come.  She  sank  back  again  and  for  a  time 
became  pensive. 

"And  I  could  so  live  if  I  had  a  husband  who 
was  real,"  she  said  presently.  "I  could  surrender 
everything — utterly,  absolutely — everything  to 
him." 

Bay  surveyed  the  slender,  supple  form  of  her 

9 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

friend  with  leisurely  admiration.  "Your  husband 
is  a  fool,"  she  said  deliberately. 

"In  a  sense,  perhaps,"  said  Cynthia,  "but  he 
lives  the  life  that  fits  him  best.  There  is  not  ca- 
pacity in  his  being  for  great  things — great  love, 
great  sorrow,  or  great  sin.  In  spite  of  his  miser- 
able, squalid  infidelities,  he  is  a  prude  in  his  way, 
and  he  would  be  very  highly  shocked  if  he  heard 
me  speak  as  I  spoke  just  then." 

Bay  suddenly  jumped  up  with  an  exclamation 
of  impatience.  She  took  half  a  dozen  quick  steps 
across  the  room  and  came  back  again  and  sat  down 
with  a  thump.  "Oh,  it  makes  me  wild  to  hear  of 
a  man  like  that.  Why  don't  you  do  something, 
Cynthia?  Why  don't  you  shake  him ?  If  he  were 
my  husband  I  would  put  flour  in  his  hat  and  peas 
in  his  boots.  I  would  hide  his  sleeping-suits  and 
dose  him  with  cayenne  pepper.  Oh,  he  would 
have  an  uncommonly  lively  time  until  he  discovered 
the  way  to  keep  me  quiet!" 

Cynthia  laughed.  "You  have  my  full  permis- 
sion to  experiment,  if  you  like,"  she  said.  "You'll 
irritate  the  animal,  but  you  won't  change  his  spots. 
Inherent  feebleness  is  not  remedied  by  practical 
jokes.  You  can  shake  a  bottle  of  soda-water  as  long 
as  you  like,  but  you  won't  turn  it  into  champagne." 

"Divorce  him,  then,"  said  Bay,  emphatically. 

"I  can't,"  said  Cynthia;  "he  treats  me  'kindly.' 
10 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

1  can  have  a  separation :  scandalise  everybody,  lose 
my  home,  and  be  no  more  free  than  at  present." 

"It's  hideous,"  said  Bay;  "but  at  least  you  have 
Eric." 

"That  from  you,  Bay,  from  you!  How  can  a 
child  take  the  place  of  a  husband?  I  love  that 
darling;  I  think  my  heart  would  break  if  I  lost 
him ;  I  love  to  feel  his  little  hands  on  my  face  and 
his  little  arms  round  my  neck.  But  that  is  not  all- 
sufficing  when  a  woman  is  twenty-seven.  I  want 
arms  that  can  grip ;  I  want  to  be  held  till  there  is 
no  breath  in  me.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  if 
you  can't  have  that,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
worth  keeping. 

"And  I'm  getting  older,  Bay,"  she  went  on 
strenuously,  "while  I  sit  in  my  case — older — older. 
Men  want  me  now — could  want  me.  In  a  dozen 
years  they  won't.  I  will  have  love,"  she  cried,  with 
a  burst  of  passion,  "while  I  may.  Show  me  a  man 
to  love,  and  I'll  love  him." 

Bay  quietly  dropped  from  her  chair  and  sat  at 
Cynthia's  feet.  She  put  her  arms  on  her  friend's 
lap  and  looked  up  into  her  face. 

"Cynthia,  have  you  ever  tried  him?  Does  he 
know  ?  Have  you  ever  made  any — any  advance  ?" 

"A  woman  can't  do  that." 

"Can't  ?"  The  innocent  widening  of  Bay's  eyes, 
the  innocent  note  of  wonder  in  her  voice,  provided 

ii 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

one  of  those  occasions  when  her  name  seemed  so 
appropriate. 

"Oh,  gladly,  willingly,  if  she  is  sure  of  a  re- 
sponse. But  not  otherwise." 

"Try,  Cynthia."  Bay's  voice  softened,  as  she 
rarely  allowed  it  to  do. 

"But  why,  Bay?"  Cynthia  looked  at  the  insist- 
ent, earnest  face  with  slightly  perplexed  affection. 
"Why  should  I  submit  myself  to  a  wholly  unneces- 
sary rebuff?" 

"Because  I  can't  conceive  a  rebuff  to  me  pos- 
sible," said  Bay,  "and  because  I  love  you  so  much 
and  want  you  to  be  happy."  She  laid  her  cheek  on 
Cynthia's  cool,  white  hand. 

"What  an  obstinate,  unbelieving  person  you 
are!"  said  Cynthia.  She  looked  down  softly  at 
the  warm,  unruly  mass  of  dark  brown  hair  on  her 
lap.  "Very  well,  you  shall  have  your  way.  As 
soon  as  conveniently  may  be,  I  will  duly  humble 
myself  to  please  Mrs.  Montressor,  and  she  shall 
hear  the  result." 

Whereat  Mrs.  Montressor  lifted  a  smiling  face 
and  kissed  her. 


12 


CHAPTER  II 

WHEN  the  up-train  for  Waterloo  reached  Hal- 
ley  Bush  station  at  eleven  o'clock  on  the  same  even- 
ing, one  of  the  first-class  smoking  compartments 
contained  only  a  single  passenger — a  staid,  elderly 
gentleman,  reading  an  evening  paper.  Here  he  was 
joined  by  a  second — a  younger  and  rather  spare 
man  of  medium  height,  wearing  a  well-fitting  suit 
of  dark  flannel,  tan  shoes  and  a  bowler  hat.  He 
had  a  sunburnt  complexion  and  a  slight  dark  mous- 
tache, and  there  was  almost  a  canine  softness  in 
his  brown  eyes — an  effect  which  was  enhanced  by 
the  light  film  of  glistening  moisture  which  lay  in 
them.  On  the  whole,  a  good-looking  man,  in  a 
weak,  characterless  way. 

He  parted  on  the  platform  with  an  older  com- 
panion, who  cast  some  facetious  remarks  in  his 
wake,  to  which  he  replied  with  studied  serenity. 
On  entering,  he  tripped  slightly  over  the  elderly 
gentleman's  foot  and  apologised  carefully.  His 
original  intention  appeared  to  be  to  go  to  the  fur- 
ther end  of  the  compartment,  but  this  small  mishap 

13 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

modified  his  purpose,  and  he  sat  down — a  little 
abruptly — in  the  place  opposite  the  seated  pas- 
penger. 

He  gazed  at  his  vis-a-vis  with  irreproachable 
steadiness  and  informed  him  that  he  had  been  play- 
ing golf.  He  further  stated  that,  having  been 
pressed  to  make  up  a  four  at  bridge  after  the  game, 
he  had  missed  his  usual  train,  and  in  those  circum- 
stances had  accepted  the  invitation  and  the  hospi- 
tality of  his  friend  on  the  platform,  which  ac- 
counted for  his  late  return.  His  manner  was 
exceedingly  sedate.  Receiving  a  courteous  ac- 
knowledgment of  these  remarks,  he  went  on  to  say 
that  he  had  been  wondering  how  the  unfortunate 
incidents  referred  to  should  affect  his  conduct  when 
he  reached  town.  His  present  feeling  was  that  it 
would  be  more  considerate  to  accept  the  temporary 
inconvenience  of  hotel  accommodation  than  to  dis- 
turb his  wife  at  so  late  an  hour.  The  stranger 
suggested  that  his  wife  might  be  anxious;  to  which 
he  immediately  agreed,  said  that  that  was  a  view 
of  the  matter  which  had  not  hitherto  occurred  to 
him,  and  thanked  his  fellow-passenger  for  putting 
it  into  his  mind — thanked  him  several  times. 

"My  name  is  Harvey  Elwes,"  he  intimated. 
"You  may  have  heard  it.  I  was  asked  to  stand 
for  Parliament  at  the  last  election — a  Shropshire 
division.  I  didn't  think  it  was  worth  while."  He 

14 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

paused  for  emphasis.    "I  didn't  think  it  was  worth 
while." 

The  train  started  with  a  jerk,  and  his  hat  fell  off. 
Mr.  Harvey  Elwes  ignored  it — indeed,  appeared 
to  be  unaware  of  its  declension.  He  gazed  at  the 
elderly  gentleman  with  unchanging  calm  and  asked 
him  if  he  played  golf.  The  latter  picked  up  the 
hat  and  returned  it — a  slight  service  which  brought 
a  beaming  smile  of  acknowledgment  to  Mr. 
Elwes's  soft  eyes. 

At  the  same  time  his  companion  informed  him 
that  he  was  not  personally  a  golfer. 

"It's  the  most  difficult  game  there  is,"  said  Har- 
vey Elwes.  "I  was  playing  rather  well  to-day.  I 
did  the  last  two  holes  in  three  each.  Long  holes. 
I  did  them  in  three  each." 

Tending  to  droop  forward,  he  drew  himself  up 
and  returned  the  stranger's  gaze  with  a  tranquillity 
which  conveyed  almost  a  challenge. 

"Last  week  I  was  down  at  Sandwich,"  he  pro- 
ceeded. "I  played  several  rounds  with  Lord  George 
Montague.  A  very  nice  man.  I  liked  him." 

He  uttered  his  sentences  quickly,  with  a  sharp 
break  between  each. 

The  elderly  gentleman  turned  his  paper.  "Did 
you  enjoy  the  game?"  he  asked  politely. 

"I  think  it's  an  overrated  course.  There's  noth- 
ing in  the  carries.  I  like  Deal  better." 

15 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

"Indeed?" 

"I  prefer  Deal." 

"That  is  also  a  golf  course  ?" 

"They  join,"  said  Harvey,  with  a  slight,  indul- 
gent smile.  "You  can  play  over  both  the  same 
day.  But  I  prefer  Deal." 

He  indicated  the  importance  of  this  statement 
by  a  sapient  jerk  of  his  head;  and  again  suffered 
the  temporary  loss  of  his  hat. 

The  elderly  gentleman  surveyed  him  for  the 
first  time  with  distinct  suspicion.  He  was  a  man 
who  held  rigid  views  upon  temperance  and  other 
questions.  Harvey,  however,  returned  his  glance 
with  unwavering  composure  and  proceeded  with 
his  remarks. 

"Your  hat,"  said  the  stranger,  coldly,  restoring 
it  to  him. 

Mr.  Elwes  admitted,  after  examining  it,  that  it 
was  undoubtedly  his;  replaced  it  with  care;  and 
proceeded — still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
other  with  defensive  tranquillity — to  feel  in  his 
pockets  for  his  tobacco.  In  the  course  of  time  he 
discovered  it  and  filled  a  pipe,  and  then  made  his 
first  attempt  to  light  it.  It  had  the  appearance  of 
a  truss  of  hay  at  the  top  of  a  fork,  and  his  repeated 
efforts  to  induce  it  to  draw  were  viewed  by  the  gen- 
tleman opposite  with  increasing  disgust.  Harvey 
expressed  his  views  apologetically,  from  time  to 

16 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

time,  in  monosyllabic  undertones.  Presently  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  the  draught  from  the  window 
was  detrimental.  In  bending  to  avoid  it  his  hat 
toppled  over  his  eye,  hovered  for  a  moment  or  two, 
finally  found  its  old  place  on  the  floor. 

This  time  the  elderly  gentleman  permitted  it  to 
remain  there  and  returned  pointedly  to  his  evening 
paper. 

A  little  later  Mr.  Elwes  decided  that  he  would 
not  smoke  after  all.  He  restored  his  pipe  and  the 
remains  of  his  matches  to  his  pockets,  straightened 
himself,  stared  composedly  at  the  evening  paper, 
and  asked  pleasantly  if  its  peruser  were  one  of 
those  men  who  were  good  at  games. 

The  gentleman  addressed  took  off  his  eye- 
glasses, wiped  them  on  his  handkerchief,  carefully 
readjusted  them,  and  proceeded  with  his  reading. 

"Tennis  is  a  good  game,"  intimated  Harvey.  "I 
daresay  you  know  it.  I've  won  several  tourna- 
ments. But  I've  given  it  up." 

The  paper  was  turned  impatiently. 

"I've  given  it  up." 

Harvey  awaited  an  incredulous  rejoinder  with  a 
glistening  smile.  He  retained  it  on  his  counte- 
nance for  several  seconds,  loth  to  believe  that  he 
was  addressing  a  man  of  apathetic  mind.  Realis- 
ing that  this  was  unhappily  the  case,  he  relapsed  for 
a  time  into  silence. 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Presently  he  aroused  himself  again.  "You  play 
billiards,  perhaps  ?  I'm  very  fond  of  billiards.  I 
once  made  a  hundred-and-ninety  break.  I've  played 
all  the  best  professionals.  I've  played  John 
Roberts." 

He  paused,  expectantly. 

"It  was  a  good  game.  He  made  some  wonder- 
ful strokes." 

Still  no  response. 

Harvey  pulled  himself  together.  "I  beat  him. 
He  had  hard  luck." 

"He  had  hard  luck,"  he  repeated  modestly. 

The  paper  was  removed  for  two  seconds,  and  the 
elderly  gentleman  bent  a  stern  glance  upon  him 
over  his  glasses. 

"I  presume  you  play  billiards  before  dinner?" 
he  said  witheringly. 

"It  just  depends,"  said  Harvey,  lightly,  pleased 
to  have  extracted  a  remark;  "sometimes  it  suits 
me  better  at  one  time,  sometimes  at  another.  I 
can  generally  spare  an  hour  or  so  after  lunch.  You 
get  very  good  billiards  at  the  First  Avenue.  You 
see,  I'm  a  barrister,"  he  added,  smiling  with  gen- 
uine delight  at  remembering  such  a  striking  piece 
of  information. 

The  evening  paper,  however,  had  again  hidden 
the  occupant  of  the  opposite  seat.  Recognising 
with  regret,  after  some  further  attempts  at  con- 

18 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

vcrsation,  that  his  fellow-passenger  was  not  alive 
to  ordinary  courtesies,  Harvey  dropped  his  chin 
on  his  chest  and  dozed  for  the  remainder  of  the 
journey. 

He  awoke  with  a  start  at  Waterloo.  His  oppo- 
site neighbour  had  folded  his  paper  and  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  the  door. 

"Allow  me,"  said  Harvey,  politely. 

His  hand  wavered  over  the  handle,  then  clutched 
it  and  turned  it,  and  the  door  flew  open,  just  ap- 
preciably before  he  was  ready.  He  recovered  in- 
stantaneously and  courteously  allowed  the  stranger 
to  pass. 

He  made  a  great  effort  to  achieve  especial  im- 
pressiveness  in  a  final  speech.  "I  must  thank  you," 
he  said,  "for  reminding  me  that  my  wife  might  be 
anxious.  I  think  you  are  right;  I  think  it  would 
be  better  to  go  home.  I  shall  take  your  advice." 

The  elderly  gentleman  stepped  over  his  hat. 

"I  shall  take  your  advice,"  he  repeated  to  the 
retreating  back. 

He  picked  up  his  hat,  then  alighted  from  the 
carriage  and  walked  down  the  platform  with  great 
dignity. 

Force  of  habit  had  carried  him  to  the  middle  of 
Waterloo  Bridge  before  he  again  remembered  his 
intention  to  drive  straight  home.  He  looked  round 
for  a  cab.  Failing  to  see  one,  he  addressed  some 

19 
V 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

caustic  comments  to  himself  upon  the  subject  of  the 
paucity  of  cabs  in  London,  and  went  on  again.  As 
he  turned  the  corner  of  the  Strand,  he  ran  into  a 
man  of  rubicund  countenance  with  a  glassy  eye. 

"Hel/o,  old  bhoy!"  said  the  latter,  boisterously. 

Harvey  regarded  him  with  his  glistening  smile. 
"Awful  good  luck!"  he  said.  "Where  have  you 
sprung  from,  Masters?" 

"The  usual  round,"  said  Masters.  "Come  and 
have  a  drink." 

"Better  without,"  said  Harvey,  piously.  "I've 
been  playing  golf——"  he  began. 

"Darned  sight  better  within,  old  chap,"  said 
Masters,  and  they  turned  into  a  bar. 

On  emerging,  half  an  hour  later,  Harvey's  care- 
ful calm  had  perceptibly  increased.  He  stood  on 
the  pavement  to  bid  good-night  to  Masters  with 
the  dignity  of  a  duke's  butler.  His  friend  had 
hailed  a  hansom.  He  lived  in  Maida  Vale. 

"Mustn't  keep  the  missus  waiting  after  one," 
he  said.  "Want  a  lift,  old  bhoy?  Where  are  you 
sleeping  to-night?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" — very  fiercely. 

"Wife  at  home?" 

"Yes."  He  was  struck  by  a  thought  and  added, 
"I  must  be  going;  she  gets  anxious  if  I'm  late." 

"Keep  your  spirits  up,"  said  Masters,  humor- 
20 


ously;  "there's  always  a  chance  she  mayn't  hear 
you  come  in.  So  long." 

Harvey  continued  carefully  westward.  It  was 
a  fine  night — one  of  those  nights  when  one  could 
walk  part  of  the  way  home  without  discomfort, 
and  the  air  did  one  good. 

"Haven't  seen  you  for  a  long  time,"  said  a  voice 
behind  him. 

Harvey  stopped  and  looked  at  the  girl  who  had 
spoken.  He  steadied  himself  and  looked  again. 

"I've  never  seen  you  before,"  he  said. 

"Not  for  nearly  a  month,"  said  the  girl.  She 
put  her  arm  quietly  through  his.  "Let  me  take 
your  arm :  you'll  get  along  better." 

"Leave  me  aloqe,  please.    I  don't  know  you." 

"Don't  you?  You've  a  very  short  memory. 
Where  are  you  going  now?" 

"Home,"  said  Harvey.  "My  wife  gets  anxious 
if  I'm  late." 

The  girl  laughed.  "You  can't  go  home  like 
this,"  she  said. 

Harvey  looked  at  her  steadily,  his  soft,  dog-like 
eyes  gradually  assuming  an  expression  which  was 
intended  to  be  severe,  but  which  was  really  in- 
creasingly drowsy.  Suddenly  he  straightened  him- 
self and,  poking  his  face  towards  hers,  "I  prefer 
to  go  home,"  he  said,  enunciating  the  words  care- 
fully: "I  prefer  to." 

21 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Come  along,  then;  I'll  see  you  part  of  the 
way." 

She  kept  her  arm  through  his  and  led  him  north- 
ward. 

"I'm  late,"  said  Harvey,  when  they  had  walked 
some  distance  in  silence.  "I've  been  playing  golf. 
I  did  the  last  two  holes  in  two." 

"Two  each?" 

"Two  altogether,"  said  Harvey,  determined  to 
make  an  impression. 

"That  was  very  good." 

"I'm  good  at  most  games,"  said  Harvey,  pleas- 
antly; "it's  a  knack — cricket,  tennis.  Play  much 
tennis?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl. 

"You  ought  to  pers'vere.  It's  a  good  game  for 
girls.  I  met  a  girl  at  a  garden-party " 

Suddenly  she  turned  on  him  fiercely.  Angry 
tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  "Don't  talk  to  me  about 
tennis.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  garden-parties,  and 
things  like  that.  D'y'  hear?" 

Wholly  mystified  by  her  vehemence,  Harvey 
bestowed  upon  her  a  slightly  terrified,  mollifying 
smile.  They  crossed  Oxford  Street  in  silence,  and 
still  continued  northward. 

Abruptly  Harvey  came  to  a  halt.  A  thought 
had  struck  him.  "Are  you'n  immoral  woman?" 
he  said  severely. 

22 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Oh,  no;  I  let  rooms  to  single  gentlemen."  She 
smiled  a  little. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

She  said  nothing. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  repeated.  "I  think 
im — im'ral "  He  looked  at  her  with  increas- 
ing severity  and  started  again :  "I  think  it's  a  great 
evil,  the  great  curse  of  the  country.  I  think  so." 

"Well,  come  on,"  said  the  girl,  gently  pulling  at 
his  arm. 

Harvey  drew  himself  together. 

"Come  on,  dear." 

"Please  don't  call  me  by  familiar  names.  My 
name  is  Harvey  Elwes.  I  was  asked  to  stand 
for " 

"Yes,  I  know;  you've  told  me  that  before." 

"My  wife  gets  very  anxious,"  proceeded  Har- 
vey. "I  don't  know  this  street." 

"You  can't  go  home  to-night,"  said  the  girl. 
"Don't  be  silly.  It's  much  too  late.  Your  wife 
has  gone  to  bed  long  ago  and  locked  up.  She 
knows  you  often  get  kept  overnight  on  business." 

Harvey  pondered.  "I  think  you're  right.  I'll 
take  your  advice.  I'll  go  to  a  hotel." 

"There  are  no  hotels  about  here.  I  can  let  you 
a  comfortable  room,  if  that's  what  you  want." 

"Is  it  far?" 

"Oh,  no ;  quite  close." 
23 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

He  assumed  an  air  of  patronage.  "I'll  take 
your  room,"  he  said. 

She  gripped  his  arm  firmly  and  steadied  him 
onward.  "You  don't  mind  me  being  there,  too, 
I  suppose?  I've  nowhere  else  to  go." 

And  Harvey  didn't. 


24 


CHAPTER  III 

HARVEY  ELWES  had  one  considerable  advan- 
tage over  many  others  of  his  kind:  he  could  turn 
out  fresh  in  the  morning,  however  inglorious  his 
condition  of  the  night  before.  He  walked  down 
Holborn  at  ten  o'clock  on  the  day  following  his 
late  return  from  Halley  Bush  bright  and  clean, 
bronzed  and  elastic,  nodding  a  smiling  greeting  to 
an  occasional  acquaintance.  His  whole  appear- 
ance was  pleasantly  suggestive  of  health  and  the 
open  air. 

After  breakfast — a  brandy-and-soda — he  pro- 
ceeded to  his  chambers  in  Lincoln's  Inn.  These 
were  in  a  building  which  he  shared  with  two  other 
men :  a  convenient  arrangement,  since,  as  they  none 
of  them  employed  clerks,  it  enabled  clients  who 
found  a  member  of  the  trio  temporarily  absent 
to  obtain  information  concerning  him  from  one 
of  the  others.  The  expedient  of  pinning  a  paper 
on  the  outside  of  his  door  is  not  grateful  to  the 
soul  of  a  member  of  the  Bar.  In  Harvey's  case, 
however,  the  contingency  of  an  incursion  of  clients 

25 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

could  be  regarded  with  equanimity.  Even  his 
uncle,  a  solicitor  with  a  large  City  practice,  had 
given  up  sending  him  work.  On  the  first  day  of 
every  third  month  he  received  a  cheque  for  two 
hundred  pounds  from  his  father's  trustees.  That 
constituted  his  income.  He  neither  made  nor  ex- 
pected to  make  any  emolument  from  his  profession. 
Up  to  a  certain  time  he  had  put  forth  a  conscien- 
tious effort  to  succeed  in  it:  he  had  diligently  at- 
tacked the  work  which  his  uncle  provided  for  him, 
had  regularly  attended  the  Courts,  had  spent  hours 
at  a  stretch  searching  volumes  of  law  reports.  But 
by  degrees  the  constant  difficulties  and  disappoint- 
ments he  encountered,  the  stiff  up-hill  struggle 
which  faces  every  young  barrister,  had  proved  too 
much  for  him  and  he  had  succumbed. 

In  these  later  days  his  visits  to  his  Chambers 
were  mechanical  and  perfunctory.  He  arrived  on 
normal  days  at  about  half-past  ten,  looked  at  his 
correspondence  (if  there  were  any  to  look  at), 
read  the  morning  paper  (particularly  the  sporting 
and  betting  news),  wrote  a  private  letter  or  two, 
and  lunched — lunched  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

He  lunched,  that  is  to  say,  he  drank,  or — to  use 
the  only  word  which  can  convey  just  what  it  was — 
he  "nipped,"  simply  and  solely  because  he  had 
nothing  else  to  do.  Had  the  discouragements  in 
his  profession  been  less  severe,  or  had  he  had  grit 

26 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

to  get  through  in  spite  of  them,  it  is  probable  he 
would  never  have  become  a  drinker.  Those  who 
succeed  in  any  career,  but  particularly  at  the  Bar, 
have  opportunities  of  work  showered  upon  them. 
Commonly  they  accept  it  all :  more  than  they  need, 
more  than  they  can  give  full  attention  to,  some- 
times more  than  their  strength  can  sustain.  Per- 
haps, human  nature  being  what  it  is,  it  would  be 
unreasonable  to  expect  them  to  do  otherwise.  But 
there  remains  the  fact  that  persistent  and  disheart- 
ening failure  to  obtain  some  of  the  work  with 
which  they  are  over-gorged  drives  many  a  defeated 
young  man  into  the  waste  ways  of  life. 

This  morning  Harvey  found  two  letters  and  a 
telegram  awaiting  him.  They  had  all  arrived  on 
the  previous  day.  The  telegram  was  from  Cynthia 
asking  him  to  order  some  oysters  at  the  Stores. 
This  gave  him  acute  distress:  not  because  his  con- 
science pricked  him  for  his  employment  of  the 
previous  day  and  night,  nor  because  he  felt  any 
doubt  of  his  ability  to  explain  his  absence  plausibly, 
but  simply  because  of  his  failure  in  the  matter  of 
the  oysters.  A  lady  to  dine,  an  oysterless  dinner, 
and  through  him !  Cynthia  should  not  have  been 
let  down  in  that  way;  he  was  very  much  to  blame. 
He  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  desk,  staring  out  of 
the  window  with  furrowed  brow.  Then  he  slowly 
folded  the  telegram  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Yes, 

27 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Cynthia  ought  to  have  had  the  oysters ;  they  ought 
to  have  been  sent. 

The  first  of  the  two  letters  contained  an  "Ac- 
count rendered"  from  a  tradesman,  accompanied 
by  a  printed  form  respectfully  asking  for  an  early 
remittance.  "I've  paid  it,"  was  his  mental  com- 
ment; "I  must  have  paid  it."  He  looked  in  his 
cheque-book,  and  found  that  he  had  omitted  to 
fill  in  most  of  the  counterfoils.  UA  very  slack 
habit,"  he  said  to  himself;  "I  must  get  out  of  it. 
Hang  it  I  but  I  know  I've  paid  it."  He  put  the  bill 
in  a  drawer  and  took  up  a  second  letter. 

This  was  from  a  lady  signing  herself  "Girlie." 
She  reminded  him  that  the  morrow  was  early  clos- 
ing day  in  her  neighbourhood  and  that  she  would 
meet  him  as  usual  at  Charing  Cross  at  two  o'clock. 
There  were  two  or  three  crosses  at  the  bottom. 
Harvey  looked  at  the  date  and  then  at  the  post- 
mark. It  had  come  by  the  previous  evening's  de- 
livery, so  the  appointment  was  for  the  present  af- 
ternoon. Yes,  of  course,  it  was  Thursday;  it  was 
always  a  Thursday.  Hang  it !  He  didn't  feel  like 
it;  he  was  tired  of  her;  she  had  nothing  in  her; 
in  fact,  it  was  a  beastly  nuisance.  But  he  should 
go.  Some  men  wouldn't,  but  he  should.  You 
couldn't  leave  a  girl  standing  about  at  a  place  like 
Charing  Cross.  She  might  get  spoken  to.  Little 
inclination  as  he  had,  he  should  certainly  go.  You 

28 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

saw  the  man  of  fine  perceptions  and  sound  conduct 
in  Harvey's  face  as  he  restored  the  letter  to  its 
envelope  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  It  came  in  con- 
tact with  Cynthia's  telegram.  In  a  moment  the 
letter  was  withdrawn,  torn  across,  and  dropped 
into  the  waste-paper  basket.  Then  he  took  out  the 
telegram,  lightly  dusted  it  with  his  fingers,  and  re- 
placed it.  There  was  no  doubt  that  those  oysters 
ought  to  have  been  sent:  he  was  very  much  to 
blame ;  very,  very  much  to  blame. 

To  many  people  it  may  seem  that  Harvey's  mail 
was  not  a  very  important  one;  yet  the  sum  of  it 
caused  him  considerable  perturbation  of  mind.  He 
fretted  about  his  room,  unable  to  settle,  unable  to 
make  his  customary  calculations,  upon  the  results 
of  the  previous  day's  racing,  of  the  suppositional 
profits  of  his  theoretical  system  of  backing  horses 
successfully,  which  was  infallible,  provided  you 
had  sufficient  capital  and  sufficient  courage.  It 
appeared  to  him  that  he  had  come  upon  one  of 
those  days  when  everything  meant  to  go  wrong. 
One  after  the  other  his  troubles  obtruded  them- 
selves. He  was  tired  of  this  girl;  to  himself  he 
could  admit  plainly  that  he  was  tired  of  her:  she 
was  common,  she  was  not  his  class;  their  aims  and 
outlooks  were  necessarily  entirely  different.  In  her 
way  she  was  a  nice  girl,  and  he  knew  she  was  fond 
of  him;  of  course  he  should  stand  by  her;  no  de- 

29 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

cent  man  could  do  anything  else ;  but At  this 

point  the  tradesman's  account  swam  into  his  ken. 
He  knew  there  would  be  trouble  about  it  before 
he  was  through  with  it.  He  searched  his  drawers 
for  the  receipt,  unsuccessfully.  He  didn't  accuse 
them  of  dishonesty,  but  he  thought  it  a  pity  that 
tradesmen  could  not  be  businesslike.  He  would  go 
out  and  buy  a  file  and  hang  it  up  in  his  room  and 
begin  keeping  his  receipted  bills  systematically.  No 
doubt  he  ought  to  have  done  so  before :  it  was  part- 
ly his  own  fault.  If  it  hadn't  come  on  the  top  of 

Cynthia's  telegram Oh,  he  wouldn't  have 

let  Cynthia  down  for  the  world.  She  would  never 
trust  to  him  again. 

He  sat  down  in  his  chair  and  sighed.  There  was 
precious  little  that  made  life  worth  living,  if  one 
looked  into  it.  The  fellows  one  met,  the  things 
one  did — very  pleasant  in  their  way — but  how 
much  did  it  all  amount  to?  Men  came  and  went 
in  the  world,  and  nobody  minded.  If  he,  for  in- 
stance— he,  Harvey  Elwes — went,  probably  his 
place  would  soon  be  filled.  He  dropped  his  chin 
on  his  knuckles,  picked  at  his  moustache,  and  pon- 
dered over  the  vanity  of  things.  He  didn't  justify 
suicide — personally  he  believed  he  could  never  de- 
scend to  it — it  was  cowardly — but  there  were  times 
when  he  could  understand  it. 

He  went  out  and  bought  his  file,  found  three 

30 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

receipts  and  stabbed  them  upon  it,  and  then  spent 
some  time  determining  upon  which  hook  in  his 
room  it  would  be  at  the  same  time  unobtrusive  and 
convenient.  At  a  quarter  to  two  he  brushed  his 
hat,  locked  his  door  behind  him,  and  walked  brisk- 
ly down  the  Strand  to  Charing  Cross. 

He  looked  into  the  precincts  of  the  station.  See- 
ing no  sign  of  the  young  lady  he  had  come  to  meet, 
he  went  into  a  bar  and  had  a  sherry-and-bitters. 
Five  minutes  later  he  emerged  and  again  glanced 
into  the  station.  Still  he  looked  in  vain.  Exhibit- 
ing some  slight,  natural  annoyance,  he  went  back 
into  the  bar  and  had  another  sherry-and-bitters. 
On  issuing  from  it  for  the  second  time,  he  went 
right  into  the  station,  and  immediately  came  upon 
the  object  of  his  search. 

This  was  a  girl  of  about  twenty,  rather  demure 
in  appearance,  quietly  dressed  and  decidedly  pretty, 
seated  on  a  bench  in  the  booking-hall. 

Harvey  hurried  up  to  her.  "Where  have  you 
been  hiding?"  he  said  breathlessly.  "I've  been 
looking  for  you  all  over  the  place." 

"I've  been  here  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour," 
said  the  girl,  quietly. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  the  most  casual  ob- 
server, seeing  the  look,  would  have  known  how  she 
was  disposed  to  him.  To  this  little  shop-girl  (she 
was  in  the  baby-linen  department  in  a  South  Lon- 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

don  drapery  establishment)  Harvey  Elwes  repre- 
sented the  whole  world.  Round  his  personality  her 
being  centred  and  by  their  weekly  meetings  she 
measured  her  life. 

"I  looked  in  several  times,"  said  Harvey.  "I 
must  have  missed  you  in  the  crowd.  I'm  awfully 
sorry." 

"You  couldn't  help  it,"  said  the  girl,  getting  up. 
"I  don't  mind,  now  you've  come." 

"Surely  you  didn't  think  I  wasn't  coming?" 

"No,  I  didn't,  really." 

"You  ought  to  know  me  better  than  that, 
Marie." 

His  tone  was  a  little  cold.  It  was  so  difficult  to 
make  her  comprehend  that  she  must  not  associate 
with  him  the  loose  standards  of  her  own  class. 

"I  say  I  didn't  think  so.  Of  course  I  didn't. 
Don't  be  stupid." 

They  walked  out  of  the  station.  Harvey  real- 
ised that  her  last  remark  ought  not  to  be  passed 
unreproved ;  but  she  always  took  even  the  slightest 
correction  so  seriously,  and  no  doubt  she  meant  no 
impertinence. 

They  crossed  Trafalgar  Square  in  silence.  Marie 
was  never  talkative  in  Harvey's  company,  and  he 
could  think  of  nothing  material  to  say.  They  were 
walking  on  without  any  fixed  purpose. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  he  asked  presently. 
32 


"I  don't  mind." 

"You  never  do.    I  wish  you  would  say." 

"I  don't  want  to  have  to  think:  I'm  quite 
happy." 

"Tofeano's  might  do." 

"Oh,  don't  let  us  bother  with  lunch,"  she  said 
quickly.  "Let's  get  out  into  the  country." 

"You  haven't  had  it?" — a  little  apprehensively. 

"No,  but  we  can  get  some  biscuits:  I'm  not 
hungry." 

Harvey's  lunch,  however,  was  a  function  not  to 
be  disposed  of  in  this  airy  manner. 

"Oh,  you  oughtn't  to  do  that,"  he  said  seriously; 
"it's  playing  with  your  constitution." 

He  took  her  to  a  restaurant  in  Soho.  They  had 
a  small  room  to  themselves,  and  he  pressed  her 
hand  between  the  courses.  When  the  waiter  had 
finally  left  them,  he  sat  with  his  coffee  and  his 
creme-de-menthe:  his  legs  were  crossed  and  his 
table-napkin  was  on  the  floor  beside  him.  Three- 
quarters  of  a  bottle  of  champagne  had  fallen  to  his 
share,  and  his  eyes  were  beginning  to  assume  their 
watery  glaze,  their  studied  calm.  He  broke  his 
cigarette-ash  on  his  plate  and  looked  at  Marie. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  been  deprecating 
her  unfairly  in  his  mind.  She  was  undoubtedly 
pretty;  also  she  was  pleasant;  also  she  was  a  dear 
girl  and  fond  of  him. 

33 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

He  stretched  an  arm  round  her  waist  and  drew 
her  towards  him. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  he  said. 

"I'll  tell  you  presently."  She  laid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder  with  a  little  sigh. 

Harvey  put  down  his  cigarette  and  kissed  her. 
He  felt  a  tremor  go  through  her. 

"What's  the  matter?" — with  foolish  anxiety. 
"Are  you  cold?" 

"No,  no;  don't  be  silly."    She  clung  to  him. 

"Why  don't  you  talk?" 

"I  can't  talk."  Her  head  was  still  on  his 
shoulder. 

He  took  up  his  cigarette  again  and  smoked  for  a 
few  minutes  rather  awkwardly. 

After  a  time  she  raised  her  head.  She  had  col- 
oured a  little  and  her  lip  trembled.  "I  want  to  say 
something." 

"Yes?"  said  Harvey. 

"When  are  we  going  away  again?" 

Harvey  disposed  of  his  creme-de-menthe.  To  do 
so,  having  only  one  hand  at  his  command,  he  was 
obliged  again  temporarily  to  relinquish  his 
cigarette. 

"I've  been  wondering  about  that,"  he  said.  "I've 
been  wondering  if  it's  worth  the  risk?" 

She  looked  at  him  without  speaking.  Her  eyes 
were  mystified  and  vaguely  reproachful. 

34 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

"It  would  be  an  awful  thing  if  anything  hap- 
pened," he  went  on  solemnly.  "It  would  be  an 
awful  thing,"  he  repeated. 

"It's  been  all  right  before." 

"That's  because  you  can  trust  me  to  do  all  I  can. 
You  couldn't  trust  some  men." 

"I  don't  want  to  trust  some  men." 

"I've  never  done  any  girl  any  harm."  He 
paused  to  allow  the  statement  full  weight.  "I'm 
not  going  to  behave  like  a  bounder,"  he  said  with 
emphasis. 

He  rang  the  bell  for  another  creme-de-menthe. 

"The  point  is — I'm  married." 

"Oh,  why  do  you  keep  telling  me  that?"  cried 
Marie,  fiercely.  "You  tell  me  every  time  I  see 
you." 

Harvey  smiled  on  her  indulgently.  "It  shuts 
the  door — in  case  of  accidents.  You  see  what  I 
mean?" 

"Of  course  I  see  what  you  mean."  She  spoke 
slowly,  with  a  note  in  her  voice  almost  of  disdain. 
"You  mean  you  can  never  marry  me." 

"That's  the  point.  I  want  to  behave  squarely 
— I  don't  want  to  behave  like  a  bounder." 

"Well,  if  I'm  willing  to  risk  it,"  said  Marie, 
after  a  pause,  "I  don't  think  you  ought  to  mind." 

"No,  not  if  you  really  understand.  I'm  only 
showing  you  the  danger.  I'm  not  like  some  fel- 

35 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

lows.  I  can't  take  advantage  of  a  girl..  I  can't 
do  it." 

"When  shall  we  go?" 

Harvey  pondered.  "This  week-end,  if  you 
like." 

"Where?" 

"1*11  let  you  know.  Some  quiet  place.  Have 
you  got  the  ring?" 

She  showed  him  her  hand.  "I  always  wear  it 
when  I  come  out  with  you." 

"How  nice  of  you !"    His  soft  eyes  glistened. 

"Oh,  Harvey " 

"Yes  ?"    He  put  his  arms  round  her. 

"I  do  love  you  so." 


CHAPTER  IV 

CHANCING  to  look  out  of  the  drawing-room  win- 
dow between  six  and  seven  that  evening,  Bay  saw 
the  master  of  the  house  coming  along  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street  with  short,  quick  steps  and  a  very 
businesslike  air. 

"Here  he  is,"  she  said  to  Cynthia. 

Cynthia  glanced  at  the  clock.  "Half-past  six," 
she  said.  "Important  conference,  Cynthia  dear. 
Big  men  briefed  on  both  sides.  I'm  lucky  to  be 
in  it."  She  had  mimicked  Harvey's  tone.  "Stop 
me  when  I  do  that,  Bay,"  she  said  the  next  mo- 
ment. "I  don't  want  to,  and  it's  so  easy  to  get  into 
a  habit." 

When  Harvey  came  in  she  noticed,  almost  with- 
out looking  at  him,  the  slight  glaze  of  his  eyes  and 
their  unnatural  steadiness.  These  were  familiar 
signs.  She  did  not  move  from  her  chair — indeed, 
scarcely  appeared  to  have  noticed  his  entrance.  He 
hurried  past  Bay  with  a  quick  greeting  and  went 
up  to  his  wife. 

"Cynthia  dear,  I'm  most  awfully  sorry  about 

37 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

those  oysters.  I  was  playing  golf;  I  didn't  get 
your  wire.  I'm  most  awfully  sorry." 

"What?  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Cynthia,  care- 
lessly. 

"Was  it  very  inconvenient?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  remembered  afterwards  that  you 
usually  played  golf.on  Wednesday." 

Her  indifferent,  even  tone  contrasted  with  Har- 
vey's short,  sudden  sentences.  Just  now  the  latter's 
genuine  concern  increased  his  normal  tendency  to' 
speak  in  jerks. 

"I've  been  worrying  about  it  all  day,  wondering 
what  you  would  do.  I  know  you  won't  have  oys- 
ters from  shops.  Were  you  able  to  get  anything 
else?" 

"Don't  obtrude  these  domestic  details."  She 
smiled  and  looked  at  Bay.  "I  believe  if  I  asked 
Harvey  to  get' me  a  shoe-lace  he  would  tell  me  his 
experiences  before  a  crowd  of  people.  'It's  a  new 
thing.  I  was  lucky  to  get  it.  So  the  man  said ;  and 
he  said  you  ought  to  lace  it  criss-cross.'  Bay !  What 
did  I  tell  you,  Bay?" 

But  Bay  had  gone  to  the  window  and  was  look- 
ing out.  She  appeared,  to  a  man  passing  in  the 
street,  to  have  a  sense  of  humour. 

Presently  she  turned  round.  Cynthia  seemed 
inclined  to  pass  the  previous  night's  absence  with- 

38 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

out  even  comment.  This  was  more  than  Bay's 
indignant  spirit  could  suffer. 

"You  were  unfortunate  last  night,  Mr.  Elwcs," 
she  said  calmly. 

"Yes,  I  was  sorry  not  to  get  home.  I  stayed  the 
night  with  Morgan.  I  went  to  his  house  after 
golf.  We  were  playing  bridge  and  I  missed  the 
last  train.  They  were  awfully  nice — he  and  his 
wife — but  I  was  afraid  Cynthia  would  be  anxious. 
You  got  my  wire?" 

He  was  hardly  conscious  of  deceit.  These  petty 
deceptions  had  become  so  habitual  that  the  line 
dividing  the  base  of  truth,  upon  which  his  stories 
were  invariably  founded,  from  the  superstructure 
of  fable  was  now  blurred  and  well-nigh  obliterated 
in  his  mind.  He  knew  that  he  had  dined  with 
Morgan  and  that  he  had  played  bridge  with  him. 
To  have  slept  with  him  was  a  natural  sequel 
which  his  brain  in  the  course  of  the  day  had  trans- 
lated into  virtual  fact. 

"Yes,"  replied  Bay,  "at  half-past  ten  this  morn- 
ing. It  was  handed  in  at  Holborn." 

Harvey  was  not  abashed.  "I  couldn't  send  it 
from  Halley  Bush :  I  was  sorry  about  that.  Mor- 
gan runs  it  so  fine :  we  had  a  rush  for  the  train." 

"Why  not  have  wired  from  Waterloo?"  said 
Bay,  inexorably. 

"Oh,  it  wouldn't  have  made  much  difference, 

39 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Bay,"  said  Cynthia.  Such  a  patent  deception  was 
not  worth  exposing. 

Harvey's  features  composed  themselves  into 
their  unchanging  smile.  He  thought  Bay  had  been 
rather  officious,  and  he  could  see  that  Cynthia 
thought  so,  too.  But  he  should  not  allow  it  to 
make  any  difference  in  his  manner.  He  was  not 
that  sort  of  man. 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  swung  his  knee  between 
his  hands,  and  proceeded  to  play  the  host. 

"Have  you  ever  tried  golf,  Mrs.  Montressor?" 

"Golf  has  tried  me,"  said  Bay. 

He  shed  the  light  of  a  generously  sympathetic 
countenance  upon  her.  "You  must  come  and  let 
me  give  you  a  few  lessons,"  he  said  kindly. 

"I  suppose  you  play  very  well?"  said  Bay,  in- 
genuously. 

"I've  had  a  good  deal  of  practice,"  he  confessed 
modestly.  "I  was  playing  very  well  yesterday.  I 
was  driving  a  very  long  ball.  It  put  Morgan  off 
his  game." 

"Do  you  ever  lose  a  match?"  Bay's  eyes  were 
innocently  round. 

Sarcasm  was  lost  on  Harvey.  "Very  rarely," 
he  said.  "I  began  young,"  he  offered  in  explana- 
tion of  his  good  fortune.  "It's  a  great  thing  to 
begin  young.  All  the  best  players  did.  I  began 

40 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

young,"  he  said,  with  his  gentle  smile,  and  rested 
his  steady,  watery  gaze  upon  her. 

Bay  turned  from  him  abruptly;  but  he  was  un- 
conscious of  the  little  shudder  of  disgust.  His 
attention  had  been  transferred  to  his  wife. 

"You  arc  looking  pale,  Cynthia  dear." 

There  was  genuine  fussy  anxiety  in  his  voice. 
He  had  an  intense  admiration  of  his  wife,  an  in- 
tense concern  for  her,  which  were  demonstrated 
in  little  officious  ways. 

"I  am  always  rather  pale,"  said  Cynthia. 

"Yes,  but  you  look  tired.  Don't  bother  to  dress 
to-night.  Dine  just  as  you  are." 

"What  nonsense!"  said  Cynthia. 

"I  think  you  overtax  yourself.  You  run  about 
too  much  after  the  boy.  Couldn't  you  leave  him 
more  to  nurse  ?  We  pay  her  her  wages. 

"Don't  do  any  more  of  that  embroidery,"  he 
continued,  getting  up:  "it  strains  your  eyes." 
Cynthia  laid  it  down  with  a  slight  sigh.  "Let  me 
lift  your  cushion  a  bit  higher.  That's  better,  isn't 
it?  Aren't  you  in  a  draught  from  the  window?" 

He  fluttered  about  her  exuding  busy  solicitude. 
She  submitted  with  an  air  of  quiet  resignation, 
which  he  completely  failed  to  attribute  to  its  true 
cause. 

"Oh,  sit  down,  Harvey,"  she  said  at  last. 

He  obeyed,  smiling  at  Bay,  to  show  her  that 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

this  was  not  a  rebuff,  but  a  slight,  intelligible  femi- 
nine vapour  which  he  could  afford  to  treat  as  such. 

After  dinner  that  night  Cynthia  remembered  a 
letter  she  had  forgotten  to  write.  She  left  Bay 
with  a  book  and  returned  to  the  dining-room, 
where  she  kept  her  escritoire.  Hearing  her  step, 
Harvey  hastily  emptied  his  glass  and  put  the  stop- 
per in  the  port  decanter.  He  could  have  spared 
himself  the  trouble:  Cynthia  was  not  deceived  by 
the  cup  of  coffee  and  the  cigarette. 

He  rose  and  leaned  upon  the  mantelpiece,  flick- 
ing his  ash  into  the  hearth,  and  occasionally  glan- 
cing at  the  graceful  figure  writing  at  the  escritoire. 
She  had  her  back  to  him.  After  a  time  he  looked 
at  her  more  often,  and  his  glances  became  medita- 
tive. His  mind  was  yielding  pleasantly  to  the  full 
consciousness  that  this  was  his  wife,  his  property; 
this  desirable  being  his  private  and  exclusive  pos- 
session. It  was  a  comfortable  thought  and  con- 
tributed agreeably  to  his  self-esteem.  No  man  of 
inferior  endowments,  it  was  obvious,  could  have 
won  so  fair  a  prize. 

It  appeared  to  him  presently  that  something  of 
this  appreciation  of  his  good  fortune,  in  justice  to 
its  subject,  might  properly  find  expression. 

"How  nice  you  are  looking  to-night,  Cynthia," 
he  said.  "I  like  that  dress." 

42 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Rather  low  in  the  neck,  perhaps,"  said  Cynthia, 
smiling  at  her  letter. 

"Yes,  it  is,  a  little;  but  still — in  spite  of  that — I 
like  it.  It  suits  you.  Altogether" — he  hesitated — 
"altogether  you  are  much  nicer-looking  than  most 
men's  wives." 

Cynthia  stopped  writing.  She  had  suddenly  re- 
membered her  promise  to  Bay.  She  would  never 
have  a  better  opportunity  to  redeem  it.  After  mo- 
mentary hesitation,  she  put  down  her  pen  and 
turned  round  in  her  chair. 

She  looked  Harvey  frankly  in  the  face.  "I'm 
glad  you  like  my  dress,"  she  said;  "I'm  glad  you 
think  I  look  nice." 

Harvey  smiled  foolishly.  He  was  surprised  by 
the  sudden  change  from  preoccupation,  and  a  little 
abashed  by  the  honesty  and  candour  of  the  eyes 
that  looked  straight  into  his.  To  hide  his  embar- 
rassment he  fidgeted  to  the  dining-table  for  another 
cigarette  and  fidgeted  back  to  the  mantelpiece  to 
light  it. 

"Harvey "  Cynthia  stopped.  "Do  you 

mind  sitting  down?"  she  said.  "I  want  to  talk 
quietly." 

He  pulled  a  chair  from  beneath  the  table,  turned 
it  towards  her  and  sat  upon  it.  He  felt  curiously 
nervous.  He  could  hardly  have  said  why. 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,"  said  Cynthia, 
43 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

picking  up  theapen  again  and  making  marks  on  her 
blotting-pad,  "that  you  and  I  are  a  very  extraor- 
dinary couple  ?" 

Harvey  stared  at  her  blankly.  He  was  far  from 
prepared  for  such  a  bomb.  The  guiding  principle 
upon  which  he  conducted  his  life  was  to  act  as 
other  people  did,  to  dress  as  other  people  did,  to 
think  as  other  people  did — in  a  phrase,  to  be  ordi- 
nary. To  behave  unconventionally,  to  wear  clothes 
a  year  ahead  of  or  behind  the  fashion,  to  hold  un- 
popular opinions— those  were  things  outside  the 
little  system  in  which  his  personality  revolved.  And 
now  he  was  told  by  his  own  wife  that  he  was  one 
of  an  extraordinary  couple !  It  almost  amounted,  it 
seemed  to  him,  to  a  reflection  on  his  character. 

"I  mean,"  proceeded  Cynthia,  "that  our  mar- 
riage— to  say  the  least — is  paradoxical." 

An  astounding  thought  occurred  to  Harvey. 
"Aren't  you  happy,  Cynthia?"  he  said,  with  sur- 
prised distress. 

"You  go  your  own  way,"  she  continued,  "and 
you  apparently  expect  me  to  go  mine.  At  all  events, 
you  leave  me — alone." 

Harvey's  conscience  suddenly  pricked  him.  "I 
go  away  for  a  night  or  two  occasionally,"  he  said, 
"but  never  for  long." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  you  are  not  in  the  house.  I 
mean  I  am  alone  in  essentials.  You  have  your  own 

44 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

interests  and  concerns,  and  I  am  your  housekeeper, 
your  dressed  doll,  your  pretty  picture-lady." 

Harvey  was  becoming  perturbed.  He  felt  in- 
clined to  cry;  he  thought  Cynthia  was  unjust  and 
unreasonable.  This  after  all  his  care  for  her,  all 
his  concern  and  solicitude ! 

"I  didn't  know  you  felt  like  that,"  he  said:  "I've 
always  tried  to  be  kind." 

He  had  the  feeling  that  he  was  stating  his  case 
with  touching  moderation. 

"Yes,"  cried  Cynthia,  "foolishly,  unnecessarily, 
irritatingly  kind — in  superficialities.  Essentially 
you  neglect  me."  She  paused.  "Surely  you  won't 
make  me  speak  definitely.  Can't  you  understand  ?" 

His  mild  eyes  looked  back  at  her  with  an  almost 
frightened  expression.  "I  don't  like  to  say  I  do," 
he  said.  "I  should  think  it  would  be  an  insult." 

His  pusillanimity  provoked  her  out  of  patience. 

"Do  you  suppose" — her  voice  rose  to  a  note  of 
indignation — "do  you  suppose  that  a  woman  mar- 
ries for  a  doll's  house  to  play  with  and  pretty  fur- 
niture to  put  into  it,  to  be  mollycoddled  and  fussed 
about  and  praised  for  her  good  looks  and  occa- 
sionally reverently  kissed  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Harvey,  too  disturbed  to 
say  more. 

"She  marries,"  cried  Cynthia,  with  naming  eyes, 

45 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"for  a  husband's  love,  and  perhaps  to  become  the 
mother  of  children." 

Harvey  stared  at  her  incredulously — dumb.  He 
was  miserably  agitated.  He  felt  as  if  a  great  ca- 
thedral had  toppled  about  him  and  strewn  its  com- 
ponent stones. 

Cynthia  bent  over  her  desk  and  again  began  to 
make  pen  lines  on  the  blotting-paper.  There  was 
a  soft  flush  on  her  cheek. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say?"  she  said  in  a  low 
tone. 

"I  can't  think  what  to  say,"  he  stammered  at 
length.  "I  never  connected  you  with — with  ideas 
of  that  sort.  I  thought  you — I  thought  you  were 
above  them.  Those  sorts  of  things  always  seem  to 
me — rather — rather  coarse  sorts  of  things." 

Cynthia  got  up. 

"Very  well,  Harvey."  She  had  turned  to  stone. 
Her  words  came  like  a  stream  of  ice.  "Never — 
never  till  I  die — will  I  speak  of  it  again." 

"Oh,  Cynthia  dear !— Cynthia !— I " 

But  the  door  had  closed.    He  was  alone. 

Cynthia  swept  through  the  hall  and  burst  into 
the  drawing-room.  She  flung  herself  on  her  knees 
at  Bay's  feet  and  buried  her  face  in  her  lap,  in  a 
flood  of  tears. 

"Oh,  Bay,  why  did  you  make  me  humiliate  my- 
self in  this  way?" 

46 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"You  have  spoken  to  him?" 

"Yes.  He  says  I  am  coarse — he  says  I  am 
coarse,  Bay." 

"Oh-h-h-h!"  Bay  drew  in  her  breath  with  a 
deep  hiss. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  she  had  gone  to  her 
room,  she  opened  the  window  and  mentally  ad- 
dressed an  imaginary  Harvey  in  the  back-garden. 

"I  am  anxious  to  be  quite  fair  to  you,  Mr.  Har- 
vey Elwes,"  she  said,  "but  I  think  we  may  say, 
without  doing  you  an  injustice,  that  you  have  had 
your  chance." 


47 


CHAPTER  V 

THERE  is  an  end  of  all  things — even  of  painters 
and  paperhangers.  They  put  us  through  a  night 
of  tribulation,  but  assuredly  joy  cometh  in  the 
morning.  So  Bay  thought,  as  she  sat  in  unwonted 
idleness  and  looked  round  at  the  pristine  fairness 
of  her  white  and  pale-blue  drawing-room — that 
pristine  fairness  which  a  London  room  can  only 
diffuse  during  the  few  weeks  following  a  thorough 
overhaul.  It  was  a  warm  day  in  June  and  the 
windows  were  all  open.  She  had  interviewed  her 
cook  and  arranged  for  the  day's  domestic  needs; 
she  had  answered  all  her  letters  and  made  a  con- 
scientious attempt  to  check  her  private  accounts; 
she  had  lunched ;  she  had  gone  up  to  Regent.  Street 
and  done  some  shopping ;  she  had  been  to  her  club ; 
she  had  called  on  two  friends  and  found  neither  at 
home;  and  now  it  was  half-past  five,  and  she  had 
nothing  to  do.  Consequently  she  was  not  dis- 
pleased to  hear  the  sharp  whirr  of  the  hall-door 
bell.  She  felt  she  could  endure  even  a  bore  for 
half  an  hour. 

48 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  maid  opened  the  door  and  announced  "Mr. 
Frank  Cheyne" — a  young  man  who  followed  quiet- 
ly, dragging  off  his  gloves.  He  was  inclined  to  be 
tall  and  inclined  to  be  thin,  but  was  not  quite 
either,  and  would  have  struck  a  new  acquaintance 
rather  by  his  narrow  and  slightly  pointed  features 
and  his  gentle  manners.  He  was  wearing  a  dark- 
blue  double-breasted  suit,  with  somewhat  tight 
trousers,  was  clean-shaven,  and  apparently  about 
thirty  years  old. 

Bay  got  up  to  greet  him  with  a  smile,  which  she 
suddenly  checked,  and  looked  at  him  soberly. 

"I'm  never  very  pleased  to  see  you,  Frank." 

"I'm  sorry  for  that,  Bay.  Why  not?"  He  was 
quite  undisturbed. 

"Because  I  never  can  make  you  angry." 

"Such  nonsense  I" 

He  smiled  easily  and  pleasantly  and  sat  down. 
He  was  Bay's  cousin,  and  looked  upon  an  invitation 
to  change  from  the  perpendicular  as  an  unneces- 
sary formality  between  them. 

"Well,  I  shall  try  your  patience  this  afternoon. 
I  feel  in  a  wild  mood.  I  have  spent  the  day  in  my 
own  society." 

"Am  I  expected  to  say  the  obvious  thing?" 

"Of  course  not.  You  never  could  pay  a  com- 
pliment. But  I  thought  I  would  give  you  a  chance. 
It  is  some  time  since  I  have  seen  you,  so  there  was 

49 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

a  possibility  you  might  have  changed.    Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  you  were  coming  to  town  ?" 

"I  am  telling  you  now.  It  is  only  for  a  few 
days.  I  am  staying  at  the  Ritz  " 

"You  could  have  stayed  with  me." 

"What  about  Mrs.  Grundy?" 

"I  don't  know  the  lady." 

Frank  Cheyne  smiled  paternally  on  his  cousin. 
He  rarely  laughed  outright.  Quietness  and  kindli- 
ness were  the  dominant  factors  in  his  constitution. 

"Have  you  had  tea?"  said  Bay. 

"No,  but  I  don't  want  any." 

"You  had  better  have  some;  it  will  help  to  pass 
the  time."  She  rang  the  bell. 

"How  do  you  like  my  new  wall-paper?" 

He  looked  round  carefully.  "Very  nice.  I 
hadn't  noticed  it  was  different." 

"You  are  very  nearly  hopeless.  Look  at  the 
carpet;  see  how  it  shades  into  the  curtains,  and 
those  into  the  blue  chintzes;  everything  getting 
paler  and  paler  till  you  come  to  the  white  paint. 
It  has  all  cost  weeks  of  thought.  Don't  you  think 
it  is  the  most  delightful  room  in  London?" 

"There  is  another  palpable  thing  to  say,"  said 
her  cousin. 

"Oh,  no,  I  am  the  only  unpretty  thing  in  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Cheyne. 
50 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

Bay  smiled.  "Yes,  I  gave  you  that.  Well,  now 
you  shall  have  some  tea." 

While  the  maid  was  placing  the  things  she  ex- 
amined her  visitor  with  disapproval. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  say  something?"  she  asked 
when  they  were  again  alone. 

"I  don't  suppose  it  would  make  much  difference 
if  I  did." 

"If  I  had  six  thousand  a  year,  I  think  I  should 
dress  a  little  better." 

He  looked  down  at  the  slighted  garments  with 
the  affection  of  ownership.  "These  are  all  right," 
he  said. 

"They  are  old,"  said  Bay,  decidedly,  "and  they 
are  not  fitted  for  town.  I  remember  them  last 
year — you  wore  them  yachting." 

"They  are  comfortable,  and  I'm  fond  of  them," 
he  pleaded. 

She  looked  at  him  judicially.  "You  are  the  kind 
of  man  who  would  pay  for  dressing,  Frank." 

"Well,  most  people  do  that,"  said  Frank. 

"All  these  things  will  return  on  your  head  before 
you  go,"  said  Bay,  firmly.  "Don't  suppose  you 
will  escape." 

She  dropped  two  lumps  of  sugar  into  his  tea  and 
passed  it  to  him. 

Cheyne  stirred  the  sugar.  "I've  come  to  ask 
you  a  favour,"  he  began,  "rather  a  big  one " 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Then  he  broke  off  and  said  abruptly,  "You  know 
Laurence  is  home  again?" 

Bay  suddenly  dived  for  the  bread-and-butter, 
which  was  on  a  shelf  beneath  the  table.  "Yes,  of 
course,"  she  replied.  "He  was  in  town  in  the 
spring;  I  saw  quite  a  lot  of  him." 

"Oh,  yes;  I  had  forgotten.  He  hasn't  changed 
much  in  three  years?" 

"Very  little,"  said  Bay.  "Won't  you  have  some 
bread-and-butter  ?" 

"I'm  glad  we  have  got  him  back  again,"  said 
Frank,  "but  I  am  afraid  he  won't  stay  long." 

"What  makes  you  say  that?" — rather  sharply. 

"He  never  does." 

"You  two  brothers,"  said  Bay,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "always  seem  to  me  to  have  been  born  in 
the  wrong  order.  Laurence  is  much  the  elder,  and 
yet  you  are  the  one  who  stays  at  home  and  man- 
ages the  estate  and  lives  in  the  old  house,  while 
he  wanders  all  over  the  world." 

"Oh,  Laurence  couldn't  be  happy  without  a  rail- 
way to  build  or  half  a  continent  to  survey.  He 
gets  moped  if  he  stays  too  long  in  England.  He 
says  you  are  always  coming  to  the  end  of  it,  which- 
ever way  you  go." 

"Goat!"  said  Bay. 

"Who  ?" — anxiously. 

"Laurence.    Here  is,  a  man  who  can  live  any- 

52 


CYNTHIA  IN.  THE  WILDERNESS 

where  he  cares  on  the  earth's  surface,  and  he 
chooses  Africa  and  Brazil  I" 

"Oh,  there  is  no  sense  or  reason  in  it;  of  course 
we  are  all  agreed  about  that,"  said  Frank;  "but, 
then,  we  are  not  all  born  engineers,  and  we  have 
not  all  got  this  spirit  of  space." 

"There  is  one  thing  about  Laurence,"  he  went 
on,  "which  seems  to  me  to  explain  a  good  deal  that 
he  does.  So  far  as  I  can  see,  he  is  impervious  to 
your  sex.  He  gets  on  with  you  all  very  pleasantly, 
and  you  all  like  him  and  he  likes  you.  Outwardly 
he  is  almost  what  is  called  a  ladies'  man ;  but  they 
never  strike  under  the  surface." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

She  spoke  rather  sharply,  and  he  replied  with 
more  seriousness  than  he  had  put  into  his  previous 
speech : 

"I  don't  know,  of  course ;  I  am  only  judging  by 
impressions ;  but  I  think  I  am  right." 

Bay  laughed  suddenly.  Frank  felt  vaguely  that 
she  regretted  her  momentary  flash  of  poignancy 
and  wanted  to  cover  it. 

"Then  don't  traduce  my  sex — for  what  you  have 
been  saying  is  a  hideous  libel  on  them — or  I  won't 
grant  your  favour.  By-the-bye,  you  haven't  told 
me  what  it  is." 

Cheyne  put  down  his  cup.  "Laurence  and  I  have 
taken  a  shoot  in  Scotland  for  the  season,"  he  said; 

53 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"not  a  large  one — about  five  hundred  head.  It  is 
too  far  for  the  Mater  to  go— besides,  it  is  not  quite 
in  her  line — so  we  want  you  to  come  and  be 
hostess?" 

"Who  is  going  to  be  there?"  said  Bay. 

"Arthur  Nugent  and  Hibbert  and  his  wife  are 
the  only  ones  we  have  decided  on  at  present,"  he 
replied.  "Four  guns  will  be  enough,  probably, 
but  we  want  you  to  get  us  some  more  ladies.  There 
is  room  in  the  lodge  for  nine  or  ten  altogether. 
We  shall  have  a  car  up  there,  and  there  is  a  burn 
close  to  the  lodge,  with  some  fair  fishing;  so  there 
ought  to  be  something  for  everyone  to  do.  We 
want  to  make  it  a  jolly  party,  if  we  can." 

Bay  reflected.  "There  might  be  someone  to 
suit,"  she  said. 

Frank  looked  at  her  circumspectly.  He  knew 
Bay  pretty  well. 

"I  am  looking  for  a  husband,"  she  informed  him 
gravely. 

"What  about  Arthur  Nugent?"  said  her  cousin. 
"He  would  teach  you  how  to  hold  a  gun  and  read 
the  Field  to  you  every  evening." 

"Arthur  Nugent  bores  me,"  said  Bay.  "I  ob- 
ject to  him." 

"If  you  are  unable  to  make  a  selection  from  the 
patterns  at  present  submitted  we  shall  be  happy  to 
furnish  a  further  instalment.  In  the  meantime, 

54 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

there  is  always  Laurence.  He  will  have  to  marry 
soon,  if  he  is  going  to  marry  at  all.  He  was  forty 
on  Thursday." 

"He  doesn't  look  more  than  thirty-five." 

"Why  not  say  twenty-five  ?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  true,  thank  Heaven.  Callow 
youths  make  me  ill."  She  looked  across  at  him 
seriously.  "Does  that  represent  the  whole  of  your 
stock?" 

"No;  the  remaining  item  is  personally  pre- 
sented." 

"You  used  to  think  of  proposing  to  me  in  the 
old  days,"  said  Bay,  "before  I  married." 

"The  question  was  reviewed  in  the  face  of 
pointed  discouragement." 

"I  should  have  accepted  you,  if  you  had." 

He  bowed  profoundly. 

"For  your  money,"  said  Bay. 

He  looked  up  with  a  smile — no  one  ever  saw 
him  ruffled. 

Bay  was  moved  by  his  unshakable  good  humour 
to  one  of  her  rare  moments  of  softness.  "I  told 
you  what  to  expect,"  she  said. 

Frank  Cheyne  sat  back  in  his  chair.  "Why  talk 
this  nonsense?"  he  said.  "What  do  you  want  a 
husband  for?" 

She  looked  back  at  him  with  pained  surprise. 

55 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"If  you  have  come  to  ask  me  questions  of  that 
sort " 

He  smiled  almost  in  spite  of  himself.  "You  are 
really  too  bad,  Bay.  I  mean  you  are  all  right  as 
you  are." 

"Do  you  mind  talking  about  something  you  un- 
derstand?" said  Bay. 

"Will  you  come  to  Tannadice?" 

"Is  that  the  shoot?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  keep  house?" 

"Please." 

"Nearest  town  twenty  miles  away?" 

"No,  only  ten;  and  we  shall  have  the  car." 

"I  am  going  up  to  Yorkshire  next  month,"  said 
Bay,  "to  stay  with  Helen  Farquharson;  she  has  a 
house-party." 

"That  makes  it  all  the  simpler;  you  can  come  on 
from  there ;  we  are  not  going  till  the  twelfth." 

"The  twelfth  of  August?" 

"Call  it  the  'twelfth  of  August'  to  Arthur 
Nugent  and  see  what  he  says." 

"Very  well,"  said  Bay,  "you  may  book  me  for 
the  twelfth." 

"Hurray!"  said  her  cousin,  fervently;  "that  is 
a  load  off  my  mind.  Now,  what  ladies  can  you 
ask?" 

"Young  or  old,"  said  Bay,  "grave  or  gay?" 

56 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"We  must  have  someone  to  leaven  Mrs.  Hib- 
bert,"  said  Frank.  "You  haven't  met  her,  have 
you?  No  one  but  Hibbert  could  have  married 
her.  She  is  one  of  those  tall,  handsome  women, 
with  rather  loud,  jolly  kind  of  voices.  She  gives 
you  the  impression  at  first  that  she  is  no  end  of  a 
good  sort." 

"I  suppose  she  is  just  the  reverse?" 

"Just,"  said  Frank. 

"How  ghastly!"  said  Bay.  "A  prim  prude  is 
objectionable,  but  at  least  she  is  honest;  but  a  prude 
who  takes  a  laughing,  ready-for-anything  tone  is 
an  abomination  not  to  be  endured.  Mrs.  Hibbert, 
almost  thou  persuadest  me  to  recant." 

"Let  us  pass  to  the  next  business  on  the  agenda," 
said  Frank,  hastily. 

"I  shall  not  be  responsible  for  my  actions  when 
I  meet  her,"  said  Bay.  "A  person  of  that  type  has 
an  extraordinary  effect  upon  me.  I  shall  behave 
atrociously.  I  shall  shock  her  purposely.  It  will 
not  be  my  fault.  An  imp  rises  up  inside  me  and 
makes  me  say  things  that  have  not  even  passed 
through  my  mind." 

"The  next  business,"  insisted  Frank,  "is  the 
selection  of  ladies  to  fill  the  vacant  seats  on  the 
board." 

"At  the  board,"  suggested  Bay. 

"Whichever  way  you  like." 
57 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"The  Templeman  twins  would  be  glad  to  come, 
probably,"  she  intimated,  after  a  little  reflection. 
"They  are  ultra-modern  and  rather  rowdy,  but 
they  are  high-spirited,  and  men  usually  like  them 
for  a  time." 

"Tick  them  off,"  said  Frank.    "Anyone  else  ?" 

"I  wonder "  said  Bay,  slowly.  Suddenly  her 

eyes  lighted  and  she  laughed.  "I  wonder  if  I  could 
manage  to  get  Cynthia  to  come  without — without 
the  incubus?"  And  she  laughed  again. 

"Who  is  Cynthia  ?    And  who  is  the  incubus  ?" 

"Cynthia?  Oh,  my  lovely  Cynthia!"  She 
pointed  a  finger  at  him.  "Three  months  hence" — 
she  glanced  at  the  date-rack — "on  the  sixteenth  of 
September — I  will  remind  you  that  you  said  to  me 
to-day,  'Who  is  Cynthia?'  and  we  will  see  if  you 
believe  it." 

"Still  you  haven't  told  me  who  the  goddess  is," 
said  Frank. 

"Cynthia  is  Mrs.  Harvey  Elwes,  and  my  very 
dearest  friend.  If  I  give  you  the  priceless,  im- 
measurable blessing  of  her  society,  I  do  it  upon  an 
understanding.  From  morning,  noon  to  night  she 
is  to  be  amused  and  kept  happy.  I  lay  that  to 
your  charge — to  your  charge  personally,  Frank 
Cheyne." 

"I  should  just  wonder  if  it  was  worth  it,"  said 
Frank,  coolly. 

58 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Ough!"  cried  Bay,  impatiently,  uyou  haven't 
seen  her.  She  compels  homage." 

"In  that  case,"  he  replied,  in  the  same  tone, 
"you  have  no  need  to  make  a  bargain.  If  there 
is  no  help  for  it — if  I  must  fall  down  and  worship, 
then  I  must.  But  what  about  her  husband?" 

"Her  husband  doesn't  count." 

Without  being  a  Puritan  or  pusillanimous, 
Frank  felt  a  vague  distrust  of  anything  or  anyone 
diverging  at  all  from  standard  conditions.  Very 
slightly  his  tone  changed.  "Is  there  nobody  else  ?" 
he  said. 

Bay  froze  him  with  a  look.  "Eat  that!  Not 
three  months  hence — not  five  minutes  hence — 
now!" 

And  Frank  Cheyne  tremulously  did  so. 

He  would  have  been  perplexed  had  he  :  een  Bay 
when  she  returned  into  the  drawing-room  ifter  his 
departure.  She  stood  quite  still  in  the  rriddle  of 
the  room,  her  two  hands  pressed  flat  upon  her 
bosom.  Her  eyes  were  shining.  She  drew  a  breath 
deeply  and  a  slight  tremor  went  through  her.  Pres- 
ently she  looked  upward  with  intense  earnestness. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  that  shook 
a  little. 


59 


CHAPTER  VI 

HARVEY  said  that,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
he  could  manage  it. 

"I  can  always  get  away,"  he  added,  with  par- 
donable pride  in  the  fact  of  his  happy  position,  so 
far  removed  from  the  commonplace  trammels  of 
ordinary  masculinity. 

After  that  it  was  difficult  for  the  others  to  sug- 
gest that  the  claims  of  wives  and  children  had  to 
be  considered.  In  fact,  it  was  difficult  to  mention 
wives  and  children — to  admit  them. 

"Couldn't  we  make  it  Cromer?"  said  another  of 
the  four,  after  a  pause,  a  little  diffidently.  They 
were  sitting  in  the  Club-house  at  Halley  Bush. 

The  only  bachelor  cleared  his  throat  with  a  little 
characteristic  laugh.  He  was  a  level-headed  being, 
who  gave  his  views  quietly.  "You  can  hardly  move 
on  the  links  in  August,"  he  said.  "They  have  a 
band  there  and  a  promenade,  and  that  sort  of 
thing.  If  you  want  a  fashionable  watering-place, 
I  should  say  go  to  Cromer.  But  if  you  want  golf, 
go  to  Brancaster.  Don't  you  think  so,  Elwes?" 

60 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"You  don't  get  good  golf  at  Cromer  in  August," 
said  Harvey,  sapiently. 

"What  about  Sheringham  ?"  said  the  man  who 
had  suggested  Cromer.  He  was  somewhat  thin  in 
face  and  frame,  with  a  fair  moustache  and  slightly 
curling  hair,  a  sanguine  complexion  and  good- 
humoured  eyes.  His  Christian  names  were  John 
Jacob.  If  he  had  inherited  a  patronymic  from  his 
ancestors,  it  was  apparently  unknown  to  his  fellow- 
members  of  the  Club. 

"That's  just  as  bad,"  said  the  bachelor.  "Be- 
sides, the  whole  idea  of  a  golf  holiday  is  to  go  to 
a  place  where  we  can  stay  all  together  in  the  Club- 
house, or  somewhere  near,  so  that  we  can  have  a 
rubber  of  bridge  at  night.  Just  the  four  of  us." 
He  again  coughed  lightly. 

"Hear,  hear,  old  chap !"  said  the  third  benedict 
in  a  boisterous  voice,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 
He  was  the  rubicund,  glassy-eyed  gentleman  whom 
we  last  saw  in  the  Strand.  "Matches  in  the  morn- 
ing, foursomes  in  the  afternoon,  and  bridge  at 
night.  That's  my  idea  of  heaven."  He  handled 
his  empty  glass. 

"How  about  drinks,  Masters?"  said  the 
bachelor. 

"Thanks,  old  chap.    I'll  have  the  same." 

"I  meant  in  heaven,"  said  the  other;  but  he 
laughed  and  ordered  the  glasses  to  be  refilled, 

61 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

"Oh,  in  heaven,"  said  Masters,  quoting  from  the 
sermon  of  an  eccentric  divine,  "  'for  those  who  pre- 
fer light  refreshment,  there  will  be  light  refresh- 
ment.' Here's  luck!" 

"Free  drinks  and  no  bunkers!"  cried  John 
Jacob.  "I  wondered  why  Elwes  had  been  going 
to  church.  Before  breakfast!"  he  shouted,  as  the' 
full  incongruity  of  a  .recent  incident  recurred  to 
him.  "Someone  saw  him.  Before  breakfast! — 
Elwes!"  He  laughed  loudly,  with  an  honest  ring 
of  pure  enjoyment. 

"Thank  the  Lord,"  said  Masters,  with  a  vivid 
recollection  of  unpleasant  experiences,  "there  won't 
be  any  tearing  great  sand-pit  in  front  of  the  thir- 
teenth tee.  All  the  same,  I  ought  to  have  won  that 
hole  to-day,  Elwes.  You'd  no  right  to  ground  on 
the  edge.  That's  a  hazard.  Bateman,"  he  called 
out  to  the  secretary,  who  was  sitting  in  a  corner 
with  a  small  Skye  terrier  on  his  knee,  endeavouring 
to  keep  the  smoke  from  a  cigarette  out  of  his  eyes 
while  he  wrote  a  letter,  "that's  a  hazard,  isn't  it, 
those  cubs  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  between  the  pit 
and  the  fence?" 

"If  Elwes  grounded  it  was  certainly  a  hazard," 
said  the  secretary,  and  went  on  stroking  his  dog. 

Harvey  smiled  broadly.  He  believed  he  could 
take  a  joke  against  himself  as  well  as  anybody. 

"I  think  I  could  have  lifted,"  he  said,  in  his 
62 


CYNTHIA  IN  "THE  WILDERNESS 

quick  tones.  "I  think  it  was  ground  under  repair. 
I  ought  to  have  done  it  in  five.  I  got  a  beautiful 
approach.  I  was  playing  my  iron  shots  well 
to-day." 

"You  were,  old  chap,"  said  Masters;  "especially 
the  one  you  bored  into  the  mud  at  the  eleventh  and 
couldn't  find." 

"Let  us  settle  about  Brancaster,"  said  the  bache- 
lor, who  saw  his  holiday  scheme  in  danger  of  being 
swamped  beneath  a  flood  of  desultory  talk.  "You 
are  a  certainty,  Elwes?" 

"Yes;  I  can  always  get  away,"  said  Harvey 
again. 

"And  you,  too,  Masters?" 

"Right  you  are,  old  bhoy." 

"And  what  about  you,  John  Jacob?" 

"If  I  can  get  the  lady  of  the  establishment  to  go 
and  stay  with  her  mother  I  shall  be  there  swiftly." 

Harvey  looked  at  him  kindly.  A  husband  who 
permitted  himself  to  be  henpecked  was  not  a  man 
he  could  respect,  but  this  crushed  benedict  was  an 
amiable  person  and  he  felt  sorry  for  him. 

"Have  a  cigarette,  John  Jacob?"  he  said. 

"We  will  give  you  another  week  to  think  it 
over,"  said  the  bachelor.  "If  you  can't  promise 
definitely  by  then  we  shall  have  to  get  someone  else. 
That's  fair,  isn't  it?" 

"Set  fair,  if  the  missis  doesn't  damage  the  fam- 

63 


ily  barometer."  He  laughed  joyously,  showing  his 
white  teeth,  and  looked  gaily  round  for  approba- 
tion of  his  witticism. 

"More  likely  Very  dry,'  old  chap,"  said  Mas- 
ters, emptying  his  tumbler. 

"We  can  consider  that  settled  then."  The  bach- 
elor coughed  lightly,  and  took  out  his  pipe  and  to- 
bacco. Then  he  looked  at  the  clock.  "Are  we 
going  to  have  a  rubber  to-night?  It's  only  six." 

"I  wanted  to  catch  the  six-twenty-four,"  said 
Harvey,  jumping  up  rather  like  a  startled  bird. 

It  was  the  only  train  which  could  get  him  home 
in  passable  time  for  dinner. 

"Just  one  rubber,  old  bhoy!" 

"Sit  down,  Elwes,"  said  John  Jacob,  who  had 
seated  himself  at  the  card-table.  "I'll  cut  you  for 
pennies  while  Masters  is  ordering  the  liquid."  He 
spread  a  pack  of  cards  across  the  table  and  laughed 
uproariously.  Masters  had  a  reputation  for  being 
none  too  prone  to  "order  the  liquid." 

"What  gaol  were  you  locked  in  on  Tuesday?" 
he  continued  merrily,  as  he  drew  cards  against 
Harvey.  "Masters  and  I  went  to  look  you  up  at 
your  Chambers.  We  nearly  knocked  the  place 
down,  but  we  couldn't  make  anyone  hear.  At  last 
one  of  those  jokers  from  below  came  up — one  of 
those  barrister  chaps.  He  was  quite  chippy.  We 
asked  him  if  he  knew  what  pub  you  were  buried 

64 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

in,  and  he  said  he  didn't.  'It's  all  right,'  said 
Masters,  'we'll  serve  him  another  day.  Haugh! 
haughl  We'll  serve  him  another  day.'  What's 
yours?  Six.  Eight.  One  to  John  Jacob." 

"You  won't  make  much  at  that  game,"  said  the 
bachelor,  cynically,  after  the  sixth  cut  had  left  them 
as  they  started.  "Come  along:  cut  for  partners." 
He  spread-eagled  another  pack.  ("Lift  me  an  ace, 
John  Jacob,"  said  Masters,  who  was  standing  at 
the  bar.)  They  turned  cards.  "You  and  I,  Elwes." 

They  took  their  places,  and  the  bachelor  dealt 
the  cards.  A  period  of  solemn  silence. 

"Leave  it." 

"Hearts,"  said  Harvey,  with  a  snap. 

"May  I  play  to  hearts,  pard?" 

"Thou  mayest."  Masters  sampled  "the  liquid" 
to  console  himself  for  a  moderate  hand. 

"The  four  of  spades,"  said  John  Jacob,  with 
great  distinctness,  playing  the  card. 

Harvey  laid  down  his  hand  and  beamed  across 
at  his  partner. 

"I  was  glad  you  left  it,"  he  said. 

"What  ho,  pard!"  said  Masters,  facetiously. 
"Give  him  time  to  pull  the  rest  out  of  his  sleeve." 

The  bachelor  examined  the  cards  through  his 
pince-nez,  coughed  lightly,  and  proceeded  to  make 
five  tricks. 

65 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  Harvey  reached  home. 
There  was  no  one  about.  He  looked  into  the  din- 
ing-room. It  diffused  an  air  of  peace.  There  was 
a  marked  absence  of  activity  about  it.  The  white 
cloth  was  still  on  the  table,  but  there  was  nothing 
on  the  white  cloth.  He  hardly  knew  what  to  do. 
Going  back  into  the  hall,  he  heard  sounds  from  the 
servants'  quarters  which  he  knew  meant  washing- 
up.  He  peered  anxiously  up  the  stairs,  and  then 
went  into  the  drawing-room  for  the  second  time. 
His  hand  hovered  over  the  bell,  but  he  did  not 
press  it.  He  disliked  giving  orders  to  the  servants, 
especially  orders  involving  an  addition  to  tbtiC 
usual  duties.  He  felt  that  that  was  an  office  which 
did  not  belong  to  him.  The  oddness  of  his  situa- 
tion struck  him  almost  humorously.  He  told  him- 
self he  felt  inclined  to  laugh.  Everything  was  so 
absurdly  quiet.  Conceiving  a  necessity  to  do  some- 
thing, he  finally  sat  down  in  an  easy-chair.  There 
was  a  feeling  of  permanency  about  it  which  did  not 
appeal  to  him ;  so  he  changed  it  for  an  upright  one. 
Still  sensitive  of  an  insufficiency  of  occupation,  he 
took  up  the  evening  paper  which  he  had  brought 
home  with  him  and  read  in  the  train.  He  was 
distinctly  conscious  that  he  was  hungry. 

Presently  Cynthia  came  down  from  the  nursery. 

"Have  you  had  dinner?"  she  said  coldly.  She 
had  dined  alone. 

66 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"No,  I  haven't  had  time,"  said  Harvey,  a  little 
breathlessly.  "I  was  rather  rushed." 

"Then  why  are  you  sitting  here  ?  Are  you  go- 
ing to  change  ?"  She  pressed  the  bell. 

"I  thought  I  would  let  you  know.  I'll  go  and 
change  now." 

"I  am  afraid  everything  will  be  cold." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  Anything  will  do.  Some 
cold  meat — anything.  Don't  put  them  to  any 
trouble.  I  hate  giving  trouble." 

He  heard  the  servant's  step  in  the  hall  and 
hastened  past  her  up  the  stairs. 

Having  satisfied  his  bodily  needs,  he  felt  once 
more  in  a  condition  to  cope  with  the  world  to  ad- 
vantage. Indeed,  he  felt,  to  say  the  truth,  that 
if  it  should  unfortunately  come  to  a  conflict,  the 
world  would  have  a  sorry  time.  But  he  would  al- 
ways be  generous.  He  could  never  hit  a  man  when 
he  was  down.  That  was  characteristic  of  him.  It 
suddenly  burst  upon  him,  as  he  was  opening  the 
drawing-room  door,  that  that  was  essentially  char- 
acteristic of  him. 

Cynthia  was  sitting  beneath  the  light,  reading. 
It  struck  him  that  she  looked  pensive — even  lonely. 
His  heart  welled  out  to  her. 

"We  haven't  been  doing  much  this  year,  Cynthia 
dear,"  he  said.  "I  think  we  ought  to  do  more. 
I'll  get  some  theatre  tickets."  He  sat  down  beside 

67 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

her;  and,  as  she  had  made  no  reply,  "I'll  get  some 
theatre  tickets,"  he  said  again,  pointedly. 

She  looked  up  indifferently.  "Do  you  think  it 
is  worth  it,  Harvey?  I  can't  sit  through  another 
musical  comedy  this  year." 

"But  it  would  do  you  good,"  said  Harvey.  "I'm 
getting  quite  worried  about  you;  you've  seemed 
completely  out  of  spirits  lately."  His  small  face 
was  puckered  with  genuine  frightened  concern  as 
he  looked  at  her.  "Musical  comedies  are  bright,'* 
he  went  on,  importing  just  a  hint  of  condescension 
into  his  tone;  "there's  some  very  clever  work  in 
them.  I  think  they  are  rather  good,  some  of  them 
— some  of  those  Gaiety  things." 

"Do  you?"  said  Cynthia. 

She  resumed  her  reading.  Harvey  thought  he 
would  return  to  the  subject  later — perhaps  when 
she  came  to  the  end  of  a  chapter.  In  the  mean- 
time, to  reassure  her  of  the  sheltering  care  that  sur- 
rounded her,  he  took  up  the  hand  which  lay  on  the 
arm  of  her  chair,  holding  a  publisher's  book-mark, 
and  touched  it  reverently  with  his  lips.  She  with- 
drew it,  but  without  emphasis. 

"You'll  be  better  when  you've  been  away,"  he 
said,  when  he  had  contained  his  soul  in  peace  as 
long  as  he  was  able.  "London  gets  stewy  at  this 
time  of  year.  The  time  is  getting  on.  We  ought 
to  talk  it  over.  We  ought  to  make  some  plans." 

68 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Cynthia  looked  up  from  her  book  and  inserted 
the  marker.  She  perceived  it  was  no  use  to  at- 
tempt to  read  for  the  present. 

"Eric  must  have  a  change,  of  course,"  she  said. 

"The  seaside?" 

"If  you  like.  Personally,  I  don't  look  upon  the 
sea  as  the  indispensable  condition  that  some  people 
do.  But  he  must  have  a  change." 

"There  were  some  men  at  Halley  Bush  this  af- 
ternoon talking  about  Brancaster.  That  is  at  the 
seaside.  But  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  be  very  good 
for  children." 

"Is  that  the  place  where  there  is  a  golf-course 
and  a  club-house  and  nothing  else?" 

"Yes ;  I  said  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  very  good 
for  children,"  said  Harvey,  hurriedly. 

"Obviously  not." 

"It  was  Stillwell's  idea,"  he  proceeded  quickly. 
"He  has  no  one  to  think  of  but  himself.  He  was 
very  keen  about  it — too  keen."  He  ruminated  the 
point  and  then  repeated,  as  a  considered  view:  "He 
was  too  keen." 

"What  was  he  too  keen  about?" 

"About  Brancaster,"  said  Harvey,  vaguely. 

"You  mean  you  want  to  go  away  without  us? 
I  wish  you  would  be  straightforward,  Harvey." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  he;  "I  don't  want  to  go/' 
And  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  declaring  his 

69 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

feeling  of  the  moment  quite  truthfully.  "I  would 
rather  not." 

"I  see,"  said  Cynthia,  with  the  faint  satirical  in- 
flection that  was  always  lost  on  him:  "You  feel 
you  must." 

"It  puts  me  in  an  awkward  position.  They  want 
a  fourth  for  foursomes  and  bridge.  Stillwell  is  too 
keen.  It  puts  me  in  an  awkward  position." 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  Harvey,"  said  Cynthia. 
"The  strain  of  divided  duty  is  always  trying.  How- 
ever, I  can  relieve  you.  I  shall  not  press  my  claim. 
That  disposes  of  the  matter,"  she  concluded,  and 
took  up  her  book  again. 

"But,  Cynthia  dear,  it's  most  awfully  good  of 
you,  but  I  wouldn't  go  if  I  thought  you  would 
mind — if  I  thought  you  would  think  it  unkind." 

She  glanced  up  momentarily.  "I  don't  mind  in 
the  least  where  you  go,  Harvey." 

He  felt  there  was  an  indefinite  something  in  the 
atmosphere,  in  her  manner,  which  left  the  position 
vaguely  unsatisfactory.  But  there  seemed  nothing 
more  to  be  said.  He  was  free  to  carry  out  his  en- 
gagement with  the  Brancaster  party,  and  she  did 
not  appear  to  feel  aggrieved. 

"But  there's  you  and  Eric,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause. 

"Yes,"  said  Cynthia,  abstractedly. 

"We  must  arrange  about  that."  After  an  in- 
70 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

terval  of  silence  he  repeated  the  remark:    "We 
must  arrange  about  that,  Cynthia." 

She  put  a  slim  finger  at  her  place  on  the  page. 
"What  are  you  saying,  Harvey?  What  must  we 
arrange  about?" 

"About  you  and  Eric.  About  where  you  are  to 
go." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  must  think  about  it.  I  had  an  invi- 
tation to  Scotland  the  other  day.  We  might  go 
there." 

He  bristled  like  a  terrier  at  the  sight  of  an  en- 
emy. "You  didn't  tell  me." 

"Didn't  I  ?  Probably  I  thought  it  was  too  mani- 
festly out  of  the  question.  You  were  not  asked." 

"I  think  I  ought  to  have  been.  I  didn't  know 
you  knew  anyone  in  Scotland.  I  think  I  ought  to 
have  been  asked." 

"It  came  from  Bay.  She  is  going  to  keep  house 
for  some  cousins  who  have  taken  a  house  up  there 
for  the  shooting  season." 

Harvey  got  up  and  walked  agitatedly  about  the 
room.  "Rather  strange  sort  of  people !"  he  said. 

He  was  annoyed  with  Stillwell  for  forcing  the 
obnoxious  Brancaster  scheme  down  his  throat;  he 
was  annoyed  with  these  impertinent  cousins  of 
Bay;  he  was  annoyed  with  Cynthia  for  taking  their 
impertinence  so  lightly. 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

At  last  he  stopped  in  front  of  her  chair.  She 
had  returned  to  her  book. 

"Cynthia  dear,  of  course  that's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion? Of  course  you  wouldn't  dream  of  going?" 

She  looked  up,  and  for  the  first  time  her  face 
broke  into  a  smile.  "I  shall  give  it  my  serious  con- 
sideration, Harvey." 

She  spoke  half  facetiously;  but  when  she  went 
up  to  her  room  she  unlocked  a  drawer,  took  out 
Bay's  letter  and  re-read  it.  It  was  addressed  from 
the  house  in  Yorkshire  where  she  was  visiting.  We 
will  peep  over  Cynthia's  shoulder  after  she  has 
turned  the  second  page  : 

"Don't  write  at  once  and  refuse.  I  know  that 
is  what  you  will  be  inclined  to  do,  Because  at  first 
it  will  seem  impracticable.  But  the  most  seem- 
ingly impracticable  things  often  become  simple  in 
the  end.  I  have  an  utterly  selfish  and  personal 
reason  for  wanting  you  particularly.  The  feminine 
element  without  you  is  too  desperate  to  contem- 
plate— a  boisterous  prude  and  two  irresponsible 
girls.  But,  really,  I  am  glad  to  go.  Perhaps  some 
day  I  may  tell  you  why.  One  reason  is  that  I  shall 
be  so  thankful  to  get  away  from  here.  I  am  en- 
during a  horrible  experience.  A  certain  gentleman 
in  his  dotage  has  chosen  to  consider  me  worthy 
of  his  regard.  My  days  are  spent  in  avoiding  him 

72 


J 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

—or  trying  to ;  his  methods  are  so  hideously  crude. 
So  far  I  have  succeeded  in  warding  off  a  proposal, 
but  it  is  obviously  inevitable.  He  is  uninsultable, 
and  he  talks  such  drivelling  rubbish  I  could  some- 
times kill  him  with  pleasure.  I  ask  you,  in  all  sober 
earnestness,  do  I  look  or  act  like  a  'sweet  little 
kinsy-winsy' ?  That  preposterous  name,  whatever 
it  may.mean,  has  been  applied  to  your  raging 

"BAY. 

"When  Frank  Cheyne  came  to  see  me  I  told 
him  I  should  ask  you  to  Tannadice,  and  I  painted 
you  in  glowing  colours.  You  couldn't  help  liking 
him — everybody  does.  So  come,  and  look  your 
loveliest  and  be  your  sweetest,  to  do  me  credit." 

Cynthia  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  back  in  its 
envelope.  The  next  morning  she  had  made  up  her 
mind.  She  sent  a  telegram  to  Bay : — 

"I  am  coming  to  Tannadice.— CYNTHIA." 


CHAPTER  VII 

ONE  of  the  small  steamers  which  travellers  in 
Scotland  owe  to  the  enterprise  of  the  late  Mr. 
David  MacBrayne  was  forging  its  way  steadily  up 
the  loch.  Two  long  lines  of  black  smoke  streamed 
from  its  funnels,  and  it  was  followed  by  a  flock  of 
sea-gulls.  The  moors  rose  steeply  on  either  hand, 
their  purple  sides  interspersed  with  regular  patches 
of  brown,  where  the  keepers  had  burned  the 
heather.  The  engines  throbbed  rhythmically,  the 
paddles  monotonously  beat  the  black  water  into 
foam,  and  the  distant  pier  of  Williamstown  became 
each  moment  imperceptibly  nearer. 

Among  the  crowd  of  passengers  on  the  saloon 
deck  Cynthia  stood  near  the  hand-rail  with  Eric 
by  her  side.  From  time  to  time  she  bent  to  read- 
just his  little  reefer  coat  or  to  wrap  the  comforter 
more  closely  about  his  chest.  She  herself  was  en- 
veloped in  a  long,  brown,  fur-edged  coat,  and  her 
hat  was  tied  on  with  a  motor  veil  of  old  gold.  It 
was  mid-August,  but  a  keen  wind  coming  down 
the  loch  met  them  and  drove  summer-clad  tourists 

74 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

shivering  into  the  saloons.  At  a  little  distance 
from  Cynthia  and  Eric  the  nurse  sat  with  her  back 
to  a  skylight,  faithfully  grasping  a  toy  schooner 
and  surrounded  by  a  miscellaneous  assortment  of 
hand-baggage. 

Eric  was  athirst  for  information  upon  a  variety 
of  matters. 

"When  shall  we  get  to  Williamstown, mummy?" 

"In  about  half  an  hour,  I  think." 

"Will  Auntie  Bay  be  there?" 

"Yes,  I  expect  so." 

"Anyone  else?" 

"I  don't  know.  Well,  I  suppose  there  will  be 
a  man  to  drive  us." 

"Do  we  have  to  drive?" 

"Yes." 

"How  far?" 

"About  ten  miles." 

"Hurrah !"  He  executed  an  expressive  pas  'de 
seul. 

This  small  gentleman  of  five  had  left  London 
the  previous  right  at  half-past  eight.  It  was  now 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

"Is  it  a  big  house,  mummy,  where  we're  going 
to?" 

"I  don't  know,  dear.  I've  never  been  there,  you 
know.  I  don't  think  it  is  very  big." 

"Bigger  'an  ours?" 

75 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Oh,  yes,  much  bigger." 

"Bigger 'an  the  King's?" 

"No,  no,  not  nearly  so  big.  It  is  what  is  called 
a  shooting  lodge." 

"What's  that?" 

"A  house  where  people  stay  to  shoot." 

"What  do  they  shoot?" 

"Grouse." 

"What's  grouse?" 

"Little  birds." 

"Why  do  they  shoot  them  for?" 

"Why?  Oh,  because  they  like  to.  Don't  ask 
so  many  questions,  Eric." 

"Isn't  it  cruel  to  shoot  little  birds?" 

"Not  these  sorts  of  birds." 

"Why  isn't  it  cruel,  mummy?" 

"Well,  because  we  eat  them." 

"Doesn't  it  hurt  so  much  when  they're  good  to 
eat?" 

"Eric,  if  you  ask  so  many  foolish  questions  I 
shall  send  you  back  to  nurse." 

That  gave  him  temporary  pause.  But  his  in- 
terest in  the  wonderful  new  things  he  was  seeing 
and  was  going  to  see  could  not  be  kept  under  by 
threats  of  nurse. 

"Will  there  be  a  pony  for  me  to  ride?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"Do  you  think  there  will,  mummy?" 
76 


CVNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Perhaps.  No,  I  don't  think  so,"  she  amended 
hastily.  "You  chatter  so  much,  Eric,  I  don't  know 
what  I'm  saying." 

'Is   all  the  people  on  the  steamer  going  to 
Williamstown  ?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"Where  are  they  going?" 

"Lots  of  places.    They  may  be  touring." 

"What's  touring?" 

"Travelling  from  place  to  place." 

"Are  we  touring?" 

"No." 

"Is  that  gentleman  touring?" 

"Sh-h!    Perhaps." 

"What  is  he  reading?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Why  is  he  so  fat,  mummy?" 

Cynthia  bent  down  to  make  some  unnecessary 
rearrangement  of  his  jacket.  She  looked  at  him 
sternly.  "Eric,  if  you  say  things  of  that  kind, 
mother  will  be  very  cross — very,  very  cross." 

He  contritely  undertook  to  avoid  personal  ob- 
servations for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  and  again 
lapsed  into  interested  silence,  until  the  engines 
switched  to  half-speed,  stopped  and  reversed,  as 
they  drew  up  to  Williamstown. 

"There's  Auntie  Bay!"  he  shouted. 

She  stood  on  the  pier  trying  to  pick  them  out 

77 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

among  the  crowd  on  deck,  and  beside  her  a  big 
man  with  a  heavy  moustache  and  a  complexion 
bronzed  under  tropical  suns.  Bay's  small  figure 
looked  ridiculously  diminutive  by  his  side. 

She  got  to  the  bottom  of  the  gangway  as  Cyn- 
thia came  down  it,  holding  Eric's  hand. 

"You  darling!"  she  cried.  "You  have  really 
come !  Are  you  a  wreck?  And  is  Eric  dead?" 

In  the  crowd  she  managed  to  draw  her  friend 
unobtrusively  a  little  aside. 

"This  is  Laurence  Cheyne,"  she  whispered,  "not 
Frank.  The  chauffeur  has  sprained  his  wrist,  so 
he  has  given  up  his  day's  shooting  to  drive  us  over. 
It  is  rather  sweet  of  him,  but  don't  tell  him  so — 
he  is  horribly  conceited." 

Then  she  produced  her  cousin  and  made  the 
formal  introduction. 

Cheyne  removed  his  motor-cap,  revealing  a 
close-cropped  covering  of  dark  hair  slightly  tinged 
with  grey.  He  was  a  good-looking  man,  tall  and 
massive,  but  without  superfluous  flesh.  He  smiled 
as  he  took  Cynthia's  hand — a  smile  of  comprehen- 
sive kindliness  which  completely  discounted  the 
somewhat  severe  aspect  of  his  strong  features. 

"I  shall  be  eternally  ashamed,"  he  said,  "for 
bringing  you  so  far  for  such  wretched  entertain- 
ment as  we  can  give  you  up  here." 

"Rubbish,  Laurence!"  cried  Bay.  "We  have 
78 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

delightful  times.  I  am  the  mistress  of  ceremonies, 
remember,  and  every  word  you  utter  in  disparage- 
ment of  Tannadice  is  a  reflection  on  me  and  will 
have  to  be  expiated." 

Before  they  had  left  the  pier,  Eric  was  trustingly 
holding  the  big  man's  hand. 

"I  have  a  motor-car  outside,"  said  the  latter, 
confidentially. 

"Am  I  going  to  ride  in  it?" 

"Yes." 

"And  is  mummy?" 

"Yes;  that  is  why  I  brought  it." 

The  news  was  almost  too  much  for  Eric.  He 
found  his  voice  in  a  stage  whisper.  "I've  often 
wanted  to  ride  in  a  motor-car,"  he  said,  feeling 
that  too  great  a  show  of  enthusiasm  would  not  be 
seemly  before  this  stranger. 

"Well,  then,  you  shall  sit  next  to  me,  and  I'll 
show  you  the  trick  of  it." 

Eric  looked  round  sharply  for  his  mother,  to 
communicate  this  stirring  intelligence,  but  she  had 
already  passed  through  the  turnstile  with  Bay. 
His  confidence  oozed  a  little,  however,  at  the  sight 
of  the  great  machine;  and  when  Cheyne  started 
the  engine  he  clung  to  Cynthia's  hand.  He  strug- 
gled hard  to  refrain  from  relinquishing  the  post 
of  honour  at  the  driver's  left  hand,  but  his  courage 
had  finally  to  be  reinforced  by  the  condition  of  his 

79 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

mother's  presence  on  the  other  side  of  him.    This 
relegated  Bay  to  the  seat  behind,  with  the  nurse. 

Eric  watched  his  new  friend's  manipulation  of 
the  levers  with  absorbed  interest ;  and  after  a  time, 
when  they  had  cleared  the  town  and  were  running 
smoothly  along  the  open  road,  his  confidence  re- 
turned to  him. 

"Will  there  be  a  pony  where  we're  going?"  he 
said.  "Mummy  says  she  thinks  perhaps  there  will." 

Cheyne  turned  his  eyes  for  one  moment  from  the 
road  to  give  Cynthia  a  reassuring  smile.  It  said 
plainly  that  he  estimated  correctly  a  child's  irre- 
sponsible chatter.  It  was  a  smile  which  bound 
them  in  a  sort  of  camaraderie  of  understanding  of 
Eric.  Cynthia  recognised  it  as  such  and  she  felt 
grateful  to  him.  She  liked  this  man.  His  face 
spelt  force,  it  spelt  decision,  it  spelt  benevolence. 
While  he  bent  over  the  wheel,  staring  steadily 
ahead,  there  was  something  stern  in  his  appearance, 
something  merely  strong.  She  thought  of  him  do- 
ing the  work  of  empire  with  gangs  of  half-savage 
labourers  under  his  control,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
he  was  well  qualified  for  the  task.  When  he  turned 
and  looked  at  her  this  impression  was  not  dispelled, 
but  another  and  very  different  one  was  added  to 
it.  His  eyes  were  gentle  and  full  of  sympathy. 
They  told  her  that  he  could  not  commit  a  cruel 
act  and  that  he  could  not  commit  a  mean  one. 

80 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

He  brought  his  face  instantly  back  to  the  road 
and  smiled  as  he  answered  Eric. 

"That's  a  matter  that  will  have  to  be  looked 
into,  old  chap,"  he  said.  "There's  a  big  stable  at 
Tannadice  with  nothing  in  it  but  an  old  cob  that 
goes  out  to  fetch  the  game.  But  I  think  I  know 
where  a  pony  can  be  hired.  This  afternoon,  if  you 
are  not  too  sleepy  and  your  mother  can  trust  us 
not  to  get  into  mischief,  you  and  I  will  go  for  a 
walk  together  and  see  if  we  can  find  it." 

They  were  rounding  a  bend  of  the  road  as  he 
spoke.  Suddenly  Eric  burst  into  a  delighted  peal 
of  laughter.  Cheyne  put  on  his  brakes  and  stopped 
the  car.  A  farmer's  light  cart,  coming  sedately  in 
their  direction,  had  turned  completely  round  at 
sight  of  them,  and  two  women  had  slipped  from 
the  back  seat  with  marvellous  celerity.  Cheyne 
left  his  place  and  took  the  horse's  bridle.  Patting 
and  talking  to  it,  he  led  it  past  the  car.  He  said 
a  few  words  to  the  women,  helped  them  up  into 
their  seats,  and  came  back. 

"You  see,  there  is  still  a  place  in  the  world," 
he  said  to  Cynthia,  as  he  got  in,  "where  horses  are 
frightened  of  motor-cars." 

As  he  met  her  eyes  he  realised  for  the  first  time, 
with  somewhat  of  a  shock  of  surprise,  that  he  was 
carrying  back  to  his  shooting  lodge  a  woman  of 
remarkable  beauty;  one,  too,  whose  beauty  was 

81 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

remarkable  because  of  the  strong  individuality 
which  obviously  underlay  it.  As  often  happened 
in  the  case  of  Cynthia,  he  had  not  particularly  no- 
ticed her  at  the  moment  of  meeting.  Now  she 
was  flushed;  the  excitement  of  speed  had  brought 
out  some  of  her  dormant  fire.  Moreover,  she  was 
happy;  the  spirit  of  adventure,  of  freedom,  had 
got  hold  of  her.  He  had  learnt  that  she  was  a 
wife  with  a  husband  who  "did  not  count,"  and  the 
fact  had  struck  him  at  first,  as  it  had  struck  Frank, 
with  a  little  misgiving.  But  undoubtedly  it  en- 
dowed her  with  peculiar  interest.  And  when,  in 
addition,  it  was  apparent  that  she  was  an  unde- 
niably lovely  woman,  that  interest  was  appreciably 
enhanced. 

As  they  went  on,  Cynthia  became  more  and  more 
absorbed  in  admiration  of  his  skill  as  a  driver. 
There  was  no  hesitation,  no  uncertainty  in  his 
handling  of  the  levers:  he  touched  them  with  the 
instinctive,  unerring  confidence  with  which  a  master 
musician  touches  the  keys  of  a  piano.  He  appeared 
to  know  the  machine  as  if  it  had  sprung  integrate 
from  his  brain — not  vaguely  and  a  little  fearfully, 
as  an  ordinary  owner  knows  his  car,  but  intimately, 
through  and  through,  wheel  by  wheel  and  cog  by 
cog.  To  him  there  was  nothing  wonderful,  noth- 
ing dangerous  about  it:  he  could  have  made  it,  he 
could  have  pulled  it  into  little  bits  and  put  it  to- 

82 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

gether  again  with  his  own  hands.  It  moved  and 
answered  to  his  touch  like  a  sentient  being.  Cynthia 
was  seeing  him,  at  the  first  meeting,  in  the  environ- 
ment which  suited  him  best.  Engineer  to  the  mar- 
row, he  shone  on  a  car  as  a  sailor  shines  on  his 
ship. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  fast  for  a  mile  or  two," 
he  said  to  her,  "or  would  you  be  nervous?" 

"No,  I  don't  mind  how  fast  we  go,"  said  Cyn- 
thia. She  was  leaning  back  confidently  in  her  cor- 
ner, her  eyes  happy,  her  veil  fluttering. 

"You  are  not  a  nervous  person?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sometimes  very — sometimes  atrocious- 
ly," she  replied,  with  a  laugh. 

"To-day  is  an  exception?" 

"Oh — well,  I  don't  mind  how  fast  we  go,"  she 
repeated,  after  a  slight  hesitation. 

She  could  not  tell  him — it  seemed  scarcely  deli- 
cate after  so  short  an  acquaintance — that  he  had 
inspired  her  with  such  confidence  in  his  capacity 
and  resource  that,  if  he  were  driving,  she  could  sit 
luxuriously  in  any  car,  at  any  speed. 

"What  about  this  little  chap?"  He  spoke  to 
Eric. 

"Aren't  we  going  as  fast  as  we  can?"  asked  Eric, 
with  wonder. 

"Not  nearly." 

"I  want  to,"  he  said  eagerly. 
83 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

Cheyne  spoke  over  his  shoulder.  "Do  you  mind 
if  we  make  some  speed,  Bay?" 

Bay  leaned  forward.    She  could  not  hear. 

"Do  you  mind  if  we  make  some  speed  over  the 
level  stretch?" 

"Goat !"    She  sank  back  again. 

"Will  the  nurse  mind?" 

He  waited  for  a  definite  reply,  while  Cynthia  put 
the  question. 

The  nurse  was  not  timorous,  so  he  opened  the 
throttle  and  advanced  his  spark.  The  car  was  a 
powerful  one,  the  road  good  and  empty.  The 
steady  pant  of  the  great  machine  changed  to  a 
resolute  hum  as  it  gathered  impetus,  until  they 
were  swinging  through  air  at  a  speed  approaching 
fifty  miles  an  hour.  The  exhilaration  of  pace  swept 
into  Cynthia's  blood;  but  she  scarcely  thought  of 
herself;  she  was  fascinated  in  watching  Cheyne. 
There  was  no  strain  in  his  face,  no  excitement  even, 
no  change  of  any  kind.  Holding  their  lives  in  a 
twist  of  his  hand,  he  was  as  reposeful  and  confi- 
dent as  he  had  been  before. 

The  swift  flight  came  to  an  end  at  a  long  rise, 
which  they  climbed  steadily  on  the  third  speed. 
Gradually  the  character  of  the  scenery  changed  as 
they  went  up.  The  trees  and  enclosed  lands  by 
the  margin  of  the  loch  were  left  behind,  and  the 
wild,  untenanted  moor  opened  before  them.  The 

84 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

road  became  rough.  They  were  crossing  a  marshy 
table-land  of  heather  and  coarse  grass,  bounded 
on  either  side  by  purple  hills  rising  into  the  mists. 
Long-haired  Highland  cattle  gazed  without  won- 
der at  the  strange  product  of  man's  inventive 
genius;  startled  sheep,  browsing  by  the  roadside, 
jumped  the  dykes  at  their  approach;  occasionally 
they  heard  distant  gun-shots. 

They  ran  steadily  over  the  ridge  of  moor  and 
for  the  next  two  or  three  miles  slowly  and  care- 
fully descended.  They  had  crossed  a  narrow  penin- 
sula, and  Cynthia  could  now  see  another  loch,  far 
below,  at  the  end  of  a  wooded  valley.  A  rocky 
stream  flowed  along  the  base  of  the  latter,  and 
their  road  was  visible  at  intervals  running  above 
and  parallel  with  it,  like  a  streak  of  white  tape. 
Some  craggy  mountain-tops  on  the  far  side  of  the 
loch  filled  in  the  picture.  The  whole  party  grad- 
ually dropped  into  silence,  gazing  with  a  sense  of 
pleasant  content  at  the  view  before  them.  Cheyne 
was  occupied  with  his  brakes,  as  they  picked  their 
way  round  the  numerous  sharp  turns  of  the  de- 
scent. 

For  some  time  Cynthia  had  been  able  to  make 
out  the  red  roof  of  a  house  among  the  trees  be- 
tween the  stream  and  the  road,  about  half  a  mile 
inland  from  the  loch. 

"Tannadice,"  said  Cheyne,  looking  towards  it: 

85, 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"the  Palace  of  Informality.  I  hope  you  won't  be 
very  much  shocked  by  our  boorish  manners." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  turned  in  at  the  gate. 
Cheyne  lifted  out  Eric  and  then  gave  his  hand  to 
Cynthia. 

"Please  forget  about  the  pony,"  she  said  to  him. 
He  smiled  without  replying. 

"Please — please.  I  shall  be  very  unhappy  if 
you  don't."  She  spoke  with  quick  earnestness. 

"The  child  would  be  disappointed.  I  promised 
him." 

Suddenly  she  laughed.  "Do  you  ever  give  way?" 

"Don't  I  look  like  it?" 

"No."  Her  dark  eyes  were  lifted  steadily  to 
his.  "I  believe  you  usually  get  what  you  mean  to 
get." 


86 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AT  lunch  Cynthia  met  the  remaining  ladies  of 
the  party.  First,  Mrs.  Hibbert — a  woman  of  flam- 
boyant type,  good-looking,  built  in  a  generous 
mould,  with  great  cow-like  black  eyes,  with  hardly 
perceptible  whites,  almost  absurdly  soft.  She  was 
well-meaning,  but  was  unfortunate  in  possessing  a 
style  at  variance  with  her  nature.  She  was  neither  a 
malicious  nor  an  insistent  prude.  Rigour  and  con- 
ventionality were  innate  in  her  and  inalienable,  but 
her  manner  was  spirited,  even  boisterous.  It  was 
an  irritating  combination  which,  in  spite  of  her 
obvious  strenuous  efforts  to  be  otherwise,  made  her 
unpopular,  except  with  her  intimate  friends,  who 
knew  both  her  good  intentions  and  her  inherent 
limitations  and  were  careful  to  keep  off  her  corns. 

She  struggled  heroically  to  be  the  life  and  soul 
of  the  party  at  Tannadice,  but,  rather  pathetically, 
succeeded  in  becoming  something  appreciably  re- 
sembling a  wet  blanket.  One  after  another  hosts 
and  guests  fell  into  the  traps  she  undesignedly  laid 
for  them.  Everyone  respected  her  prejudices — 

87 


CYNTHIA  IN,  THE  WILDERNESS 

even  Bay,  in  spite  of  her  bellicose  utterances  to 
Frank  Cheyne — but  there  was  a  suspicion  of  a  dis- 
position to  avoid  her. 

She  was  seated  opposite  Cynthia  at  lunch,  and 
immediately  set  about  to  make  the  latter  feel  at 
home. 

"We  have  such  glorious  Bohemian  times  here, 
Mrs.  Elwes,"  she  said,  with  an  animated  smile. 
"I  am  sure  you  will  enjoy  it.  It  is  all  such  inno- 
cent fun." 

She  uttered  the  last  phrase  in  a  peculiar  tone 
of  her  own.  It  was  one  that  was  frequently  on 
her  tongue :  a  fact  which  was  made  quite  apparent 
to  Cynthia  by  an  accidental  glimpse  of  Bay,  who 
was  choking  a  ferocious  interjection  with  an  espe- 
cially large  mouthful  of  chicken. 

"Oh,  I  am  prepared  to  be  very  foolish,"  said 
Cynthia.  "I  think  it  is  delightful  here." 

"And  you  have  a  dear  little  boy.  He  will  be 
a  great  acquisition." 

"I  hope  you  will  think  so,"  said  Cynthia,  "after 
you  have  heard  him  make  himself  thoroughly  ob- 
jectionable." 

"Children  are  always  high-spirited,"  said  Mrs. 
Hibbert,  brightly.  "We  should  be  very  sorry  to 
have  them  anything  else.  He  must  be  a  great  com- 
fort to  you,"  she  added,  slightly  subduing  the 
smile. 

88 


CYNTHIA  IN,  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  assumed  Cynthia  to  be  a  widow.  She  as- 
sumed every  matron  to  be  a  widow  who  was  unable 
immediately  to  produce  a  husband. 

"Oh,  my  husband  is  decidedly  alive,"  said  the 
latter,  frankly. 

Mrs.  Hibbert  drew  partly  into  her  shell.  But 
there  was  still  a  simple  explanation. 

"He  is  coming  later?  He  couldn't  leave  London 
so  early?"  she  said,  smiling. 

"Good  gracious,  no!"  said  Cynthia,  jocularly. 
"I  shouldn't  be  so  happy  if  that  were  in  prospect.'* 

"You've  put  your  foot  into  it !"  exclaimed  a  spir- 
ited voice  at  her  elbow  in  a  solemn  whisper. 

Mrs.  Hibbert  collapsed  into  pitiable  silence.  She 
would  have  liked,  for  the  sake  of  harmony,  to  have 
gone  on  talking ;  but  it  was  impossible.  She  didn't 
wish  to  point  her  prejudices;  the  stony  pause  was. 
as  uncomfortable  for  her  as  for  the  rest.  Simply 
she  could  not  help  it.  She  was  stricken  dumb  by 
such  callous  disrespect  of  connubial  ties.  Her  in- 
tention had  been  excellent  throughout ;  but  Cynthia 
unwittingly  had  trodden  on  her  toes — trodden  on 
them  heavily. 

The  latter  looked  across  at  Bay  rather  help- 
lessly, but  before  she  could  intervene,  Cheyne  came 
to  Cynthia's  relief. 

"Wives  must  have  a  rest  from  husbands,  some- 
89 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

times,"  he  said  lightly,  "and  sometimes  husbands 
from  wives." 

"That's  awful  rot,  Mr.  Cheyne." 

This  indignant  observation  came  from  one  of 
the  twins,  the  same  who  had  just  exclaimed  into 
Cynthia's  ear.  These  two  young  ladies  were  ar- 
dent votaries  of  the  modern  "open-air"  school. 
They  wore  short  frocks,  spoke  of  things  being 
"ripping,"  and  told  you  to  "buck  up."  (They  were 
particularly  fond  of  adjuring  Frank  Cheyne  to 
"buck  up" — for  his  gentle  habits  were  uncongenial 
to  their  souls — but  they  never  succeeded  in  indu- 
cing him  to  "buck"  one  moment  before  he  privately 
intended.)  They  went  out  with  the  guns  and 
bathed  from  boats,  played  bridge  atrociously  and 
knew  all  the  dogs  by  name.  They  took  the  nearest 
arm  familiarly  in  the  grounds,  made  "apple-pie" 
beds  for  the  men,  and  put  sugar  in  the  salt.  Every- 
one knew  them  as  "Patty"  and  "Peggy,"  respec- 
tively— Cynthia  hardly  heard  their  surname — and 
they  were  proof  against  even  Bay's  caustic  ridicule. 
They  were  tolerably  good-looking,  and  were  voted 
by  acclaim — what  they  undoubtedly  were — decided 
assets  at  a  shooting-party. 

"You  can't  possibly  know,"  continued  the  one 
who  had  spoken,  contemptuously.  "You  are  a 
bachelor." 

90 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Does  that  amount  to  a  proposal  of  marriage?" 
said  Cheyne,  anxiously. 

Patty  and  Peggy  threw  their  bread  at  him  simul- 
taneously, and  thereby  appeared  to  consider  honour 
satisfied. 

"School-children !"  said  Bay,  pungently,  "go  and 
pick  up  your  bread  and  stand  in  the  corner  and 
write  on  your  slates  'We  don't  know  any  better.'  " 

The  one  who  was  sitting  next  her  made  a  dart 
at  her  and  kissed  her  impetuously — apology  sincere 
and  sudden.  They  rose  at  the  conclusion  of  lunch 
with  flags  flying  and  chased  Cheyne  into  the  gar- 
den. It  was  something  to  have  a  man  available 
during  the  day.  They  caught  him  on  the  lawn,  as 
he  was  lighting  a  cigar,  and  clung  to  each  of  his 
arms.  Mrs.  Hibbert,  who,  though  still  subdued  in 
spirit  and  perturbed  on  Cynthia's  account,  had  had 
time  to  recover  her  superficial  ebullition,  followed 
them  breezily. 

Bay  took  Cynthia  across  the  hall  into  the  room 
which  was  called  the  drawing-room.  Tannadice 
Lodge  was  discovered  to  be  a  spacious,  somewhat 
ramshackle,  lightly  and  cheaply  furnished,  but, 
withal,  comfortable  place  of  sojourn.  There  were 
rooms  called  variously  the  "gun-room,"  the  "din- 
ing-room," the  "drawing-room,"  the  "smoke- 
room,"  but  there  was  nothing  particularly  to  dis- 
tinguish one  from  the  other.  Smoking  was  per- 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

mitted  everywhere  and  at  all  times.  The  furniture 
in  each  room  was  of  the  same  type — plain,  slightly 
dilapidated,  often  broken  and  amateurly  repaired 
with  wrappings  of  string.  Indeed,  not  only  in  ma- 
terial things,  but  in  the  pervading  atmosphere,  the 
dominant  note  was  what  might  be  called  comfor- 
table Bohemianism.  Cynthia  had  not  been  in  the 
house  many  hours  before  she  discovered  that  there 
was  a  tacit  understanding  among  everybody  that  at 
Tannadice  formality  was  to  be  dispensed  with. 

She  speedily  imbibed  the  spirit  of  it  and  found 
it  delightful.  To  sit  on  the  window-sill  in  the 
* 'drawing-room"  at  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
talking  to  a  man  in  muddy  boots  with  a  pipe  in 
his  mouth,  while  four  other  members  of  the  party 
played  rather  noisy  bridge  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  and  a  fifth  hammered  out  a  music-hall  air 
on  the  pianola,  was  an  unusual  experience  to  her, 
but  she  learnt  to  enjoy  it  as  she  had  never  enjoyed 
anything  before. 

This  afternoon,  having  reached  the  room  in 
question  with  Bay,  she  stood  for  a  time  at  the  win- 
dow looking  out.  The  twins  had  guided  Cheyne 
to  a  garden-seat  and  were  happily  ensconced  on 
either  side  of  him.  Mrs.  Hibbert  sat  in  a  wicker 
chair  near  them.  Occasionally  her  ringing  laugh— 
a  laugh  of  pure  enjoyment,  provoked  by  the  pas- 

92 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

sages-at-arms  between  the  occupants  of  the  seat — 
came  through  the  open  window. 

While  Cynthia  was  watching  them,  Eric  ap- 
peared on  the  lawn  with  his  nurse.  He  did  not 
approach  the  group,  but  from  time  to  time  he  cast 
a  wistful  glance  in  Cheyne's  direction,  and  he  took 
care  to  keep  continuously  within  his  range  of  vision. 

Presently  Cheyne  noticed  him  and  remembered 
his  promise.  He  disentangled  himself  from  the 
twins  and  came  across  the  lawn  to  Eric.  Peggy 
and  Patty  quickly  followed,  and  an  animated  dis- 
cussion ensued.  They  appeared  to  be  proposing 
to  attach  themselves  to  the  expedition,  a  suggestion 
which  obviously  failed  to  meet  with  Eric's  entire 
approval.  No  doubt  he  foresaw,  with  the  wisdom 
gained  of  experience,  that,  with  two  grown-up 
young  ladies  accompanying  them,  subjects  in  which, 
he  was  not  specially  interested  would  provide  the 
staple  topics  of  conversation.  The  original  prom- 
ise had  contained  no  such  condition.  He  was  to  go 
a  walk  in  search  of  a  pony  with  his  big  new  friend, 
and  with  him  alone. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Cheyne,  at  length  putting  an  end 
to  the  discussion,  "this  is  a  very  private  business." 

Thereupon  he  took  the  child's  hand  and  marched 
him  off,  Eric  talking  volubly. 

Peggy  and  Patty  stood  and  watched  them  disap- 
pear into  the  shrubbery  leading  to  the  gate.  Foe 

93 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

a  moment  they  seemed  inclined  to  resent  this  small 
person's  calm  appropriation  of  the  only  man.  Then 
they  changed  their  minds  and  charged  with  mock 
ferocity  upon  Mrs.  Hibbcrt,  who  was  laughing 
delightedly. 

Cynthia  turned  from  the  window.  She  was 
brimming  with  spirits.  Already  the  moor  air  had 
got  into  her  veins.  The  heaviness  of  London,  and 
of  what  London  meant  to  her,  was  lifted  from  her 
soul. 

"I'm  glad  I  came,"  she  said  fervently  to  Bay. 
"I  like  all  these  people.  I  like  your  cousin.  I  like 
the  twins."  She  took  a  breath.  "I  like  Mrs. 
Hibbert." 


94 


CHAPTER  IX 

CHEYNE  closed  the  door  behind  the  ladies  and 
pushed  the  decanters  towards  Nugent.  Nugent 
allowed  such  interval  to  elapse  as  would  exclude 
any  appearance  of  haste,  and  then  refilled  his  port 
glass  and  passed  the  wine  to  Frank.  Frank  refilled 
his  glass  without  any  interval  at  all  and  deposited 
the  decanter  at  Hibbert's  elbow.  Hibbert  chanced 
to  notice  it  in  the  course  of  a  few  moments,  lifted 
it  lightly  in  a  neatly  shaped  hand  and  returned  it 
to  Cheyne.  He  was  a  thin  man,  with  cheeks  some- 
what sunken  and  a  moustache  somewhat  grizzled, 
slightly  finicky  in  appearance  and  in  manner.  The 
thin  cords  of  a  pair  of  pince-nez  lay  across  his  shirt- 
front. 

"You  are  very  temperate,"  said  Cheyne. 

"I  find  it  answers,"  said  Mr.  Hibbert,  avoiding 
smugness  by  a  casual  tone,  "to  be  temperate  not 
only  in  the  matter  of  alcohol,  but  in  all  matters." 
He  enunciated  his  words  clearly. 

"Quite  right,"  said  Cheyne,  handing  him  the 
cigarettes.  ("Try  one  of  the  Egyptians.)  If  you 

95 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

want  a  complete  code  of  ethics,  you  can  have  it  in 
two  words:   Be  temperate." 

Hibbert  puffed  quickly  at  his  cigarette  and  blew 
out  the  match  he  had  lighted,  evidently  fearful  lest 
someone  should  intervene  before  he  could  reply. 

"Oh,  you  are  carrying  me  too  far,"  he  said.  "I 
didn't  intend  to  say  that.  In  some  matters  there 
are  conditions  precedent  which  must  be  observed 
before  even  temperate  concessions  to  the  flesh  can 
become  right.  There  is  the  case  of  marriage,  of 
course." 

"Why  'of  course'?"  said  Cheyne.  He  passed 
the  cigarettes  to  Nugent.  "Come,  Hibbert,  be 
honest.  You  can  say,  if  you  like,  that  it  is  con- 
venient for  social  organisation  to  set  up  these  bars 
on  spontaneous  action,  but  you  are  not  entitled  to 
drag  in  morality." 

Mr.  Hibbert  fingered  his  pince-nez.  "You  can- 
not be  suggesting  that  marriage  is  merely  a  social 
convenience  ?" 

"Surely  I  am,"  said  Cheyne.  "A  method  of 
making  the  fathers  responsible — a  good  one,  too. 
There  are  as  many  sins  within  marriage  as  there 
are  moral  deeds  without." 

"I  don't  quite  follow  you."  Hibbert  had  flushed 
a  little. 

"Take  the  case  of  a  girl  who  is  forced  to  marry 
an  elderly  man  she  detests.  Is  that  a  sin?" 

96 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Perhaps." 

"Or  of  an  ordinary  married  couple  who  take 
advantage  of  their  position  to  excess.  Is  that  a 
sin?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Hibbert  again. 

"On  the  other  hand,  take  two  lovers — real  lov- 
ers— who  cannot  marry.  Is  that  a  sin?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Hibbert.  The  pince-nez  left 
his  hand  and  rattled  down  his  shirt-front. 

"Is  that  a  sin,  Nugent?" 

"Don't  ask  me"  said  Nugent,  stretching  for  a 
salted  almond. 

He  was  a  dark,  shaven  young  man  with  a  large 
nose  and  rather  pathetic  brown  eyes  with  a  per- 
petual tear  in  them.  He  made  a  cult  of  shooting 
and  was  merely  tolerant  of  conversation  upon  any 
other  subject.  The  present  discussion  appeared  to 
him  especially  otiose.  He  wanted  to  explain  how 
he  had  come  to  miss  with  his  second  barrel  that 
afternoon  when  two  birds  had  risen  at  his  feet. 

"Is  that  a  sin,  Frank?" 

"It  would  be  a  dangerous  doctrine  to  admit," 
said  Frank. 

Cheyne  laughed.  "It's  a  stiff-backed  generation. 
I  can't  make  any  one  of  you  agree  with  me.  If 
you  could  get  outside  the  world  and  see  its  insti- 
tutions without  prejudice  for  ten  minutes  you  would 

97 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

be  amazed  that  such  a  question  could  need  to  be 
asked." 

"Of  course,  one  can  mere  or  less  follow  those 
ideas  in  theory,"  said  Frank,  "but  in  practice  they 
would  lead  to  chaos." 

"That  brings  us  back  to  the  original  point,"  said 
Cheyne.  "Marriage  is  a  practical  social  conveni- 
ence and  nothing  more.  I  simply  contend  that  it 
is  not  an  indispensable  condition  of  morality."  He 
broke  his  cigarette  ash  and  leaned  forward  on  the 
table,  looking  round  with  that  gracious,  kindly 
glance  which  disposed  many  people  to  accept  what- 
ever proposition  he  chose  to  advance.  "Well,  I 
will  throw  in  two  more  words,  and  then  I  am  pre- 
pared to  put  up  my  code  against  all  your  intricate 
doctrinal  niceties,  as  a  guide  to  the  whole  duty  of 
man.  It  is  very  simple:  Be  temperate:  consider 
others." 

"It  is  too  simple,"  said  Hibbcrt.  "I  cannot  sub- 
scribe to  it." 

"So  we  must  agree  to  differ  as  usual,  Hibbert," 
said  Cheyne,  smiling.  "But  I  don't  despair  of  you. 
You  get  more  human  every  time  I  come  home.  An- 
other three  years  in  Brazil  and  I  shall  find  you 
quite  out  of  the  rut.  .  .  .  Nugent,  my  dear  fellow, 
why  didn't  you  call  out?"  He  passed  him  the 
decanter. 

None  of  the  men  would  have  been  much  sur- 
98 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

prised  if  his  chair  had  suddenly  given  way  beneath 
him;  but  the  port  was  Croft's  '63  and  the  ciga- 
rettes were  Nestor's  Sultanas :  facts  which  Nugent, 
for  one,  needed  no  one  to  tell  him. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  four  of  them  filed  into  the 
drawing-room. 

"Now,  who  are  going  to  play  bridge,"  said 
Cheyne,  "and  who  are  going  to  play  musical 
chairs?" 

Cynthia  looked  up  with  a  curious  interrogative 
glance  and  caught  his  eye. 

"Musical  chairs,  Mrs.  Elwes,"  he  said,  without 
laughing. 

"Oh,  it's  ripping  fun,  Mrs.  Elwes,"  cried  Patty. 

Cheyne  went  up  to  her.  "We  behave  very  child- 
ishly," he  said  in  a  lower  tone.  "Don't  humour 
us  if  you  are  not  in  the  vein." 

"I  want  to  play  musical  chairs,"  said  Cynthia. 

He  smiled.  "Positively  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  you  really  want?" 

She  coloured  very  slightly.  (Some  freakish 
sprite  had  flung  into  her  mind  certain  phrases  she 
had  voiced  not  long  ago:  "I  want  arms  that  can 
grip.  I  want  to  be  held  till  there  is  no  breath  in 
me.")  "Just  at  this  moment," 'she  said,  smiling. 
Then,  without  a  pause:  "You  took  Eric  out  this 
afternoon  and  brought  back  the  pony.  I  am  hor- 
ribly ashamed." 

99 


CYNTHIA  IN..  THE  WILDERNESS 

Whether  her  evening  gown  or  some  other  cause 
were  responsible,  she  had  fallen  upon  one  of  those 
times  when  her  loveliness  was  patent  and  indis- 
putable. During  the  men's  absence  the  twins  had 
frankly  examined  her  and  frankly  expressed  their 
enthusiastic  admiration.  Cheyne  did  not  examine 
her,  but  he  was  conscious  of  the  effect. 

"/  am  ashamed,"  he  said,  "for  disobeying  your 
wishes." 

He  left  her  a  little  abruptly  and  opened  a  cup- 
board in  a  corner  of  the  room.  From  this  he  ex- 
tracted a  fat  box  of  chocolates,  which  he  laid  on 
a  table. 

"The  prize,"  he  announced.  "Patty  and  Peggy 
are  to  be  handicapped  by  being  blindfolded,  be- 
cause they  cheat." 

They  rushed  upon  him  simultaneously;  and  after 
a  spirited  controversy  he  succumbed  and  agreed  to 
accept  their  entries  unpenalised.  In  the  meantime, 
Frank  and  Mrs.  Hibbert  arranged  a  row  of  chairs 
down  the  middle  of  the  room,  under  the  direction 
of  Bay,  who  expressed  her  opinion  of  the  intelli- 
gence they  displayed  in  forcible  terms.  Hibbert 
and  Nugent  talked  on  important  subjects  in  a 
corner. 

Cheyne's  voice  invaded  their  superior  peace. 
"You  will  be  allowed  to  stand  out  as  usual,  Hib- 

100 


bert,  on  condition  that  you  play  the  pianola.  Come 
along,  Nugent." 

Nugent  joined  the  circle  waiting  round  the  chairs 
with  a  smile  of  good-humoured  toleration  which 
relegated  the  rest  to  the  level  of  the  nursery. 

After  a  pause,  Hibbert  walked  with  an  ab- 
stracted air  to  the  pianola,  tapping  his  shirt-front 
with  his  pince-nez.  His  private  view  of  this  sort 
of  thing  was  not  to  be  expressed  in  words. 

He  picked  up  the  first  roll  of  music  that  came  to 
his  hand,  snapped  it  into  the  sockets  of  the  instru- 
ment, and  started  to  pedal  steadily,  ignoring  the 
time  and  tone  stops.  Immediately  the  human  circle 
took  motion,  ambulating  warily  round  the  line  of 
chairs,  silently  at  first,  presently  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  staccato  laughter  from  Mrs.  Hibbert  and 
agonised  cries  from  one  or  other  of  the  sisters 
'("Oh,  Mr.  Hibbert,  stop!  do  stop!")  punctuated 
by  the  bass  tones  of  the  Cheynes,  sternly  enjoining 
someone — usually  a  twin — to  "keep  moving." 

The  music  stopped  and  they  scrambled  to  seats. 
Patty,  to  the  incredulity  of  the  others  and  her  own 
deep  mortification,  was  found  to  be  seatless.  A 
chair  was  quickly  abstracted;  the  pianola  started 
again,  and  again  they  were  moving  round. 
Cynthia,  bending  forward,  holding  up  her  silken 
skirts,  wary  as  any  of  them,  watched  the  absurd 
procession  with  happy  laughter  in  her  heart.  It 

101 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

was  such  a  vivid  change  for  her.  A  night  or  two 
ago  she  had  been  sitting  in  the  dull  blight  of  Har- 
vey's unrelieved  society,  hearing  with  weary  ears 
his  pompously  empty  patter.  Now — this!  She 
followed  Bay,  Bay  followed  Frank,  Frank  fol- 
lowed Mrs.  Hibbert,  Mrs.  Hibbert  followed 
Cheyne,  Cheyne  followed  Peggy,  Peggy  followed 
Nugent,  Nugent  followed  her — creeping  like  cats 
up  and  down  the  sides,  darting  across  the  ends, 
laughing,  exclaiming,  protesting,  a  ridiculously  re- 
volving line  of  invigorating  puerility. 

The  music  stopped  again.  Scrambling  to  a  seat 
which  a  second  before  had  been  empty,  she  found 
herself  on  Nugent's  knee.  She  sprang  up  with  a 
little  cry  of  apologetic  confusion,  and  he  instantly 
offered  her  the  chair.  But  this  was  against  the 
unwritten  law  of  the  house. 

"Nugent,"  called  Cheyne,  sternly,  "obey  the 
rules.  Mrs.  Elwes  is  out." 

Cynthia  retreated  disappointed.  For  a  fraction 
of  a  second  her  eyes  shot  an  indignant  reproach  at 
the  autocrat.  But  the  surveyor  of  continents  was 
already  moving  again. 

"Hurry  up,  Peggy !  Don't  hang  at  the  corners." 

Frank  followed  Cynthia  into  exile.  Then  came 
Nugent,  then  Peggy.  Laurence  Cheyne,  Bay  and 
Mrs.  Hibbert  disputed  the  last  two  chairs.  After  a 
scramble  the  latter  retired  defeated. 

102 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"A  double  dose  this  time,  Hibbert,"  shouted 
Cheyne.  "This  is  the  last  lap." 

He  turned  the  chair  with  his  wrist,  as  he  and 
Bay  revolved  round  it,  so  as  to  keep  the  seat  con- 
tinuously on  his  own  side. 

"Brute!  Fiend!  Cur!"  she  flung  at  him  with 
vigorous  ferocity;  and  then  sat  down,  panting,  on 
the  chair,  which  had  mysteriously  come  round  in 
her  direction  just  as  the  music  ceased. 

She  looked  up  over  the  back,  which  Cheyne  still 
held.  For  one  moment  an  unaccustomed  intensity 
deepened  her  eyes.  "You  are  absolved.  Give  me 
the  chocolates." 

"The  question  before  the  committee,"  said 
Frank,  getting  in  his  word  before  his  brother  could 
suggest  further  imbecilities,  "is  the  question  of 
bridge." 

Forthwith  several  of  the  party  proceeded  to 
make  excuse.  Cynthia  was  genuinely  beginning  to 
feel  tired  after  her  journey.  The  twins  hated 
bridge  and  other  people  hated  playing  with  them. 
Nugent  wanted  to  talk  to  the  keeper  about  one  of 
his  guns.  He  thought  it  pitched  too  high  on  his 
shoulder.  That  failure  at  a  simple  right  and  left 
bothered  him. 

"It    was    a    most    extraordinary    thing,    Mrs. 
Elwes,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  slight  amusement 

103 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

which  such  an  exceptional  occurrence  could  only 
provoke :  "two  birds  got  up  just  at  my  feet.  .  .  ." 
Cynthia  gave  him  ready  attention.  She  liked  his 
pathetic  eyes.  At  last  he  had  got  a  listener  to  his 
explanation. 

When  the  bridge-table  had  been  got  out  it  was 
discovered  that  there  were  five  available  players. 
The  Hibberts  and  Bay  were  three.  Only  a  second 
man  was  needed.  One  of  the  hosts  must  stand  out. 

"Remember  your  promise,"  said  Bay  to  Frank. 
She  looked  at  Cynthia.  Nugent  had  already  gone 
to  the  gun-room,  and  she  was  sitting  alone. 

Frank  also  looked  at  her.  She  was  charming 
and,  for  the  moment,  a  little  pensive.  But  he  was 
very  fond  of  bridge. 

"All  right,  Bay,"  he  said. 

"Well,  you  needn't,"  said  Bay,  relenting.  "I 
don't  think  Laurence  wants  to  play." 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  play,"  said  Laurence. 

He  spoke  indifferently.  He  played  when  he  was 
wanted,  but  he  was  not  an  enthusiast  and  usually 
he  was  glad  to  escape. 

He  went  to  sit  by  Cynthia. 

"You  are  not  fond  of  bridge?"  he  said  to  her. 

"Yes,  very,  sometimes;  but  I  play  very  badly." 

"Of  course  you  cheat?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 
104 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"All  women  cheat  at  bridge,"  he  said  com- 
posedly. 

She  laid  her  head  on  the  cushions  of  her  chair. 
"Will  you  please  substantiate  that  statement  and 
apologise?" 

"Do  you  never  frown  at  your  cards  for  a  minute 
or  two  and  then  say,  'Yes,  I  must — I  must  leave 
it'?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  one  has  a  doubtful  hand  it  is 
sometimes  difficult  to  know  what  to  do." 

"That  is  cheating,"  said  Cheyne,  calmly. 

"Then  you  are  deliberately  suggesting  that 
women  have  a  lower  sense  of  honour  than  men 
have?" 

"It  is  an  acknowledged  fact." 

She  turned  on  him  with  bright  eyes.  "Suppos- 
ing you  heard  privately  that  a  company  you  were 
interested  in  was  likely  to  pay  a  less  dividend,  what 
would  you  do?" 

"If  the  information  came  from  a  reliable  source, 
probably  sell  .out,"  said  Cheyne. 

"That  is  a  phrase  that  has  a  delightfully  self- 
contained  sound ;  but  I  suppose  it  implies  that  some- 
one would  have  to  buy?" 

"Yes.    I  should  be  sorry  for  him." 
"If  it  happened  to  be  a  woman?" 
"I  should  be  sorrier  still." 
"Would  you  make  up  her  loss?" 
105 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Oh,  dear,  no.  It  would  be  a  business  transac- 
tion." 

"But  she  wouldn't  have  your  sources  of  knowl- 
edge, so  it  would  be  the  same  thing  as  putting  your 
hand  in  her  pocket  and  taking  her  money." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Cheyne:  "I  couldn't  put  a 
hand  in  her  pocket  because  I  shouldn't  know  where 
to  find  it." 

"That  is  a  stupid  quibble  and  a  very  trite  one. 
It  means  you  have  no  answer."  She  smiled  tri- 
umphantly. "Now,  will  you  please  apologise  for 
saying  I  am  dishonourable  for  hesitating  about  a 
declaration  at  bridge  when  you  are  prepared  to  rob 
me  of  hundreds  of  pounds." 

"We  have  not  been  talking  of  you." 

"It  might  be  me." 

"It  couldn't." 

She  looked  at  him  guardedly.    "Why  not?" 

"Because  you  are  too  intelligent  to  make  a  silly 
bargain." 

She  smiled  and  dropped  her  eyes,  flushing  a  very 
little.  "Still,  I  think  I  must  insist  on  the 
apology." 

"You  have  it  without  reserve." 

"Thank  you.  And  now,  if  you  don't  mind,  I 
should  like  to  go  to  bed." 

"But  why  so  early?"  There  was  a  note  of  real 
disappointment. 

106 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"I  am  tired." 

"Of  course  you  are." 

She  got  up  and  smiled  a  friendly  good-night  to 
the  bridge-players. 

Cheyne  took  her  into  the  hall  and  lighted  her 
candle.  As  she  received  it  from  him  she  gave  him 
her  other  hand.  He  noticed  that  it  was  cool  and 
soft. 

"Good-night,"  she  said.  "It  is  lovely  to  be 
here." 

His  hand  lingered  a  moment  on  hers.  "It  is 
very  delightful  to  have  you." 

"I  must  be  careful,"  he  said  to  his  shaving-glass, 
two  hours  later.  He  had  said  it  before  in  the 
course  of  his  life. 

He  tugged  off  his  tie  and  threw  it  in  the  basket. 
"I  must  be  very  careful,  or  this  woman  will  make 
a  mess  of  me." 


107 


CHAPTER  X 

LUNCH  was  over;  the  half-hour's  idle,  pleasant 
conversation  which  succeeded  it  was  over.  One  or 
two  of  the  men  had  risen  from  the  heather  and 
were  filling  their  pockets  with  fresh  supplies  of 
cartridges.  The  three  ladies  (the  twins  were  not 
there,  having  been  bidden  to  a  lawn-tennis  func- 
tion) had  intimated  that  they  intended  to  remain 
at  the  scene  of  the  feast  as  long  as  they  chose,  and 
Bay  had  already  produced  a  novel. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  would  feel,"  said  Cynthia, 
"to  go  to  a  theatre  and  come  out  just  as  the  curtain 
was  going  up,  but  I  imagine  it  would  be  something 
as  I  feel  at  present." 

"Would  you  like  to  go  on  with  us,  Mrs.  Elwes?" 
said  Frank,  lazily.  (He  was  not  one  of  those  who 
had  risen.) 

The  head  keeper  approached  unobtrusively.  He 
had  overheard  the  last  remark. 

"If  Mistress  Elwes  would  like  to  come  with  us," 
he  said,  "I  will  carry  her  over  the  burns," 

108 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

He  was  a  bronzed  and  bearded  Scot,  and  one  of 
the  kindest  and  gentlest  of  men  ever  born. 

"Where  are  we  going  this  afternoon,  Donald?" 
said  Laurence. 

"I  thought,  if  Mr.  Cheyne  is  agreeable" — Don- 
ald punctiliously  avoided  the  impertinence  of  per- 
sonal pronouns  when  addressing  his  social  superiors 
— "we  would  finish  the  Liskate  beat  and  then  go- 
over  the  corner  of  Glen  Lorrie  that  we  missed  on 
Monday." 

"The  end  of  the  Liskate  beat  brings  us  down  to 
the  road,  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Donald. 

"Whereabouts?" 

"Close  to  the  place  we  call  Blake's  Corner. 
There's  a  white  farmhouse  there.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Cheyne  will  remember  it?" 

He  was  always  respectful,  but  never  obsequious. 

"You  can  come  if  you  like,"  said  Laurence  to 
Cynthia,  "but  the  heather  gets  very  high  in  places 
and  we  walk  pretty  fast." 

"There  won't  be  any  cause  to  hurry  this  after- 
noon," said  Donald.  He  had  found  a  particularly 
tender  place  in  his  heart  for  Cynthia.  "We  shall 
have  more  time  than  we  need." 

"I  shall  come  as  your  guest,  Donald,"  said 
Cynthia.  "I  am  sure  you  are  the  only  one  who 


wants  me." 


109 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

"Mistress  Elwes  will  be  quite  safe,"  said  Don- 
ald, unemotionally. 

Cheyne  spoke  to  the  man  who  had  come  with 
the  game-cart:  "Tell  Bannerman  to  bring  the  car 
to  Blake's  Corner  at — well — four  o'clock.  If  he 
doesn't  know  the  way,  come  with  him." 

Bay  looked  up  from  her  novel.  She  had  been 
turning  the  pages  savagely  in  the  last  few  minutes. 
"Laurence,  I  hate  you.  Donald,  I  abhor  you." 

"If  Mistress  Montressor "  began  Donald, 

very  much  upset. 

"What's  the  matter,  Bay?"  said  Laurence. 

"If  there  is  one  thing  I  particularly  enjoy,"  she 
replied  caustically,  "it  is  to  be  ostentatiously  omit- 
ted from  an  invitation." 

"Come  by  all  means,"  he  said,  "all  three  of  you, 
but  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  it  a  terrible  drag." 

"I  don't  think  my  wife  would  care  about  it," 
opined  Mr.  Hibbert,  a  little  nervously. 

"Oh,  dear,  no,  I'm  much  too  lazy,"  cried  that 
lady,  gaily.  "I  can't  move  from  here  for  at  least 
an  hour." 

"I  won't  come,"  said  Bay,  "if  you  beg  me  on 
your  knees." 

Nugent  breathed  a  sigh  of  ineffable  relief.  He 
had  found  this  conversation  decidedly  trying.  The 
presence  of  one  lady  was  sufficiently  irregular  and 
to  be  deprecated — but  three!  Personally,  he 

no 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

thought  that  the  introduction  of  the  female  element 
even  at  lunch  was  a  mistake.  It  involved  discursive 
chatter  on  irrelevant  subjects  and  it  wasted  valu- 
able time.  A  man  couldn't  shoot  when  his  mind 
had  been  distracted  by  frivolous  banalities. 

"Time  passes,  Cheyne,"  he  ventured  to  say. 

Laurence  had  gone  over  to  his  cousin  and 
dropped  one  knee  on  the  heather  beside  her. 

"You  are  not  seriously  annoyed,  Bay?"  he  said. 
"I  had  no  idea  you  would  care  to  walk  with  us." 

"No,  I  am  not  annoyed,"  she  said,  meeting  his 
eyes.  Her  tone  was  suddenly  subdued.  "I  am  not 
annoyed,  Laurence.  Haven't  you  learnt  to  know 
me  yet?"  He  was  looking  at  her  with  friendly 
solicitude.  She  dropped  her  eyes  quickly  to  her 
book.  "I've  got  a  scrumptious  novel." 

He  turned  away  vaguely  uneasy.  Bay  always 
had  puzzled  him,  and  the  longer  he  lived  the  fur- 
ther he  felt  himself  to  get  from  understanding  her. 

The  guns  lined  out. 

"Keep  close  to  me,"  said  Laurence  to  Cynthia. 

"Oh,  no;  I  am  Donald's  guest." 

"Keep  close  to  me,"  he  repeated. 

"But  will  you  carry  me  over  the  burns?" 

"I  make  no  rash  promises." 

"I'm  not  heavy." 

She  threw  a  note  of  plaintive  appeal  into  the 
statement,  which  brought  a  smile  to  his  face.  He 

in 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

deliberately  measured  her  slender  form.  It  ap- 
peared less  substantial  than  it  actually  was,  by  con- 
trast with  his  powerful  physique. 

"I'll  tell  you  later  on  if  I  agree  with  you,"  he 
said. 

When  they  had  climbed  half-way  up  the  first 
hill,  Cynthia  turned  and  waved  a  handkerchief  to 
Bay.  Mrs.  Hibbert  waved  back  vigorously  at 
once.  After  a  lapse  of  a  few  seconds  Bay  waved 
also. 

For  a  time  Cynthia  kept  scrupulously  a  yard  or 
two  behind  Laurence,  fearing  to  be  in  his  way. 

"Why  don't  you  walk  beside  me?"  he  said.  "If 
I  am  to  undertake  this  herculean  task  of  carrying 
you  across  the  burns,  you  must  provide  a  quid  pro 
quo.  I  expect  to  be  amused." 

"I'm  afraid  of  making  you  miss,"  she  said,  com- 
ing up,  nevertheless. 

"What  if  you  did?  You  would  have  saved  a 
little  bird's  life,  and  we  should  have  one  less  grouse 
to  eat.  Imagine  the  joy  of  a  possible  dinner  with- 
out grouse.  Watch  the  dogs,"  he  added;  "there 
will  be  no  excitement  until  you  see  one  of  them 
stand." 

He  walked  leisurely,  carrying  his  gun  over  his 

shoulder,  barrel  pointing  upward.    Nugent,  on  the 

extreme  right  of  the  line,  stalked  forward  with 

long,  stealthy  strides,  holding  his  gun  keenly  in 

112 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

both  hands,  ready  to  raise  in  an  instant  to  his 
shoulder.  He  was  a  painstaking  shot  and  by  assid- 
uous care  had  attained  some  proficiency.  Cheyne 
shot  by  instinct,  and  the  bird  that  escaped  him  was 
lucky. 

"I  am  surprised  that  there  are  any  grouse  to  eat 
at  all,"  said  Cynthia:  "you  give  so  many  away.  I 
daren't  think  of  the  number  of  labels  I  have  ad- 
dressed. It  makes  me  blush." 

"If  it  has  that  effect,"  said  Laurence,  "I  wish 
you  would  go  on  addressing  labels  all  day." 

"That  is  not  at  all  a  tactful  remark." 

"Why  not?" 

"It  means  you  think  I  am  too  pale."  Cynthia 
was  keenly  conscious  of  her  slight  anaemic  tendency. 

"It  means  nothing  of  the  kind.  Colour  is  not  a 
beauty  in  itself ;  it  depends  for  its  effect  upon  appro- 
priate conditions;  and  in  any  case  it  is  superficial 
and  often  ephemeral.  A  builder's  plot  in  the  sub- 
urbs is  hideous  at  all  times,  and  a  sunset  doesn't 
improve  it.  The  loch  below  there  is  beautiful  at 
this  moment,  but  when  the  sun  goes  down " 

Ping— ping.  A  brood  had  got  up  rather  wildly 
between  Nugent  and  Frank.  The  latter  accounted 
for  two  of  them;  Nugent  shot  once  and  killed  his 
bird.  A  straggler  came  within  range  of  Laurence. 
He  broke  his  sentence  to  fire;  Cynthia  was  a  shade 
close  to  his  elbow:  the  bird  continued  its  flight. 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"That  confounded  woman  1"  Nugent  was  a  hun- 
dred yards  off,  so  the  remark  fortunately  reached 
no  ears  but  his  own. 

"If  Mistress  Elwes  will  stand  a  little  further 
away,"  called  Donald,  who  was  anxious  for  his 
bag. 

"Better  luck  next  time,"  said  Laurence,  ejecting 
the  spent  cartridge.  "Would  you  like  to  have  a 
shot?" 

Not  so  very  long  before  he  had  stood  in  a  forest 
clearing  with  three  panthers  on  three  sides  of  him. 
On  that  occasion  to  have  missed  would  quite  pos- 
sibly have  cost  him  his  life.  But  he  had  not  missed. 

Cynthia  took  Donald's  advice,  but  she  still  kept 
abreast  of  Laurence.  A  few  minutes  later  he 
pointed  out  a  dog  to  her — its  head  down,  its  tail 
motionless,  one  foreleg  raised.  She  held  her  breath 
and  waited.  A  compact  brood  rose  in  front  of  the 
dog.  Laurence  picked  his  birds  skilfully  and  killed 
with  both  barrels. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  enjoy  doing  this?"  he  said. 

"Pulling  a  little  piece  of  gun-metal?" 

"Slaughtering  these  harmless  birds?" 

"You  appear  to." 

"Do  you  like  seeing  things  killed  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  killing  them?" 

"Not  very  much." 

"Then  why  did  you  come?" 
114 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Because  I  like  walking  over  high  heather  and 
up  big  hills  and  squashing  through  morasses.  Have 
you  any  other  questions  to  ask  me?" 

From  which  it  may  be  gathered  that,  during  her 
week's  sojourn  at  Tannadice,  Cynthia  had  become 
acclimatised. 

For  the  next  half-hour  birds  rose  more  frequent- 
ly. Laurence  was  kept  occupied,  and  Cynthia 
plodded  along  beside  him,  or  a  little  behind  him, 
in  silence.  It  was  harder  work  than  she  had  ex- 
pected. Chcyne  ranged  wide  of  his  beat  to  find 
her  breaks  in  the  heather  or  sheep-tracks  leading 
through  it.  But  there  were  unavoidable  wide,  deep 
expanses  of  it,  reaching  to  her  knees,  which  had  to 
be  waded  through,  the  hills  were  very  toilsome  and 
long,  the  men  walked  fast,  and  there  was  no  res- 
pite. In  spite  of  her  utmost  effort,  she  and 
Laurence  always  seemed  to  be  a  little  behind  the 
line.  Then  they  came  to  a  burn  and  he  lifted  her 
over  it.  As  he  set  her  down  he  looked  at  her  face. 
"I  am  afraid  you  are  tired,"  he  said.  "Would 
you  like  to  rest?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  with  cheerful  mendacity. 
"I'm  only  a  little  out  of  breath.  There  are  so 
many  hills." 

Even  this  small  halt  had  dropped  them  further 
behind.  She  eyed  Nugent's  persistently  advancing 
figure  with  secret  despair.  While  she  was  watch- 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

ing  him,  he  looked  round  and  stopped;  and  then 
the  two  other  men  and  the  keepers  looked  round 
also  and 'stopped. 

"They  have  stopped,"  she  said,  agitatedly; 
"they  are  waiting  for  you.  Please  go  on." 

"Pooh !"  said  Laurence.  He  laid  down  his  gun 
and  helped  her  up  the  steep  bank  of  the  stream. 

"Donald,"  he  called  out,  "tell  them  not  to  go 
so  fast." 

The  pace  was  moderated.  Thenceforward  they 
were  able  to  keep  in  line  without  so  much  diffi- 
culty, and  Cynthia  lost  that  sense  of  trailing  behind 
which  had  been  the  worst  of  her  previous  discom- 
forts and  the  most  fatiguing.  Nevertheless,  she 
breathed  a  sigh  of  inward  satisfaction  when,  on 
reaching  the  brow  of  a  hill,  she  again  saw  the  loch 
below,  and  a  road  curling  beside  it,  with  the  motor- 
car upon  it. 

It  was  an  easy,  gradual  descent.  The  heather 
gave  place  to  short  grass  with  angles  of  rock  pro- 
truding through  it.  Near  the  bottom  they  were 
faced  by  a  stone  wall  with  a  gate  in  it,  which  latter 
opened  upon  a  rough  track  leading  through  some 
farm  buildings  to  the  road.  Here  the  whole  party 
came  to  a  halt.  The  men  dropped  down  on  the 
grass  and  the  dogs  were  temporarily  leashed. 

"Please  don't  trouble  to  come,"  said  Cynthia. 
116 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Cheyne  had  opened  the  gate.    "I  can  see  the  car. 
I  can  easily  find  my  way  to  itr" 

"I  shall  go  home  with  you*"  said  Laurence. 
"I've  murdered  enough  grouse  to-day,  and  the  cor- 
ner they  are  going  to  work  hasn't  sport  for  more 
than  three  guns." 

Donald  came  quietly  to  her  elbow.  "If  Mistress 
Elwes  would  care  for  a  sprig  of  white  heather  ?" 

"I  should"  said  Cynthia. 

"I  can't  understand  where  he  finds  it,"  said 
Laurence.  "I  never  see  any." 

"Mr.  Cheyne  would  see  plenty  if  he  would  look 
in  the  hollows,"  said  the  keeper,  tranquilly. 

"Thank  you,  Donald,"  said  Cynthia,  sticking 
the  heather  in  her  blouse.  "You  treat  me  much 
too  well.  If  you  persist  in  being  so  thoughtful 
you  will  never  be  able  to  drive  me  away  from 
Tannadice." 

"But  Mistress  Elwes  will  come  next  year?" 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Cheyne. 

"You  have  made  him  give  me  an  invitation," 
said  Cynthia,  laughing.  "I  shall  take  care  not  to 
let  him  have  an  opportunity  to  escape  from  it." 
She  turned  through  the  gate.  "Good-bye,  Donald. 
You  mustn't  keep  Mr.  Nugent  waiting  any  longer. 
He  is  getting  very  angry  with  me." 

Donald  laughed — a  peculiar  dry,  short,  good- 
natured  laugh — and  strode  away. 

117 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"I  believe  there  is  nothing  that  man  doesn't 
think  of  or  can't  do,"  said  Laurence,  as  they 
walked  down  to  the  car.  "This  afternoon  he  had 
the  shoot  to  manage  as  usual.  I  didn't  notice  that 
he  ever  took  his  attention  from  one  or  other  of  us, 
or  from  the  dogs  or  the  other  keeper.  Yet  all  the 
time  he  was  looking  for  some  white  heather  for 
you,  and  he  found  it." 

"I  am  very  fond  of  Donald,"  said  Cynthia.  "I 
almost  love  him." 

"Well,  I  think  the  tender  passion  is  reciprocated. 
He  didn't  mean  you  to  stay  behind  this  afternoon. 
Unfortunately,  he  is  married." 

"So  am  I." 

"So  you  are  I"  He  drew  a  slow  breath.  "Do 
you  know,  I  had  almost  forgotten  it." 

They  had  reached  the  car.  Laurence  allowed 
the  chauffeur  to  drive  and  got  in  beside  Cynthia 
at  the  back. 

"It  is  easy  to  forget,"  she  said,  "up  here — on 
the  moors." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  He  gazed  deeply  at  her, 
sitting  half  round  in  his  corner.  "You  speak  as  if 
you  wished  to  forget." 

A  faint  flush  slowly  coloured  her  cheek. 

"I  suppose  it  is  natural,"  she  said,  "that  the 
world  in  general  should  assume  that  all  marriages 

118 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

which  don't  lead  to  bruises  or  the  police-court  are 
quite  satisfactory,  quite  perfect." 

"We  assume  what  we  wish,  what  we  hope,"  said 
Laurence.  "It  is  an  institution  we  have  set  up; 
we  want  to  think  the  best  of  it.  If  our  edifice  is 
not  quite  sound,  if  there  are  cracks  in  it,  even  if 
the  foundations  are  faulty,  we  would  rather  not  be 
told.  We  resent  it." 

"That  is  cowardly." 

"I  am  talking — as  you  were — of  the  world  In 
general." 

"Yes,  I  know.    Aren't  we  going  very  fast?" 

"Not  more  than  thirty.  Didn't  you  say  you 
were  not  nervous  ?" 

"I  said  I  was  very  nervous  sometimes." 

"You  were  not  nervous  the  other  day?" 

"No." 

Laurence  was  not  self-complacent,  but  he  did  not 
pretend  to  miss  the  inference. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  drive?" 

"And  leave  me  here  in  solitary  state !  I  would 
rather  be  nervous." 

He  spoke  to  the  chauffeur,  and  the  speed  imme- 
diately slackened.  A  few  minutes  later  they 
gtopped  altogether. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Cynthia. 

"Home.    Don't  you  recognise  the  gate?" 

"Already?" 

119 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

"Would  you  like  me  to  take  you  for  a  run?" 

"Oh,  no;  let  us  go  in  and  have  tea.  But  what 
an  absurd  little  distance !" 

"It  is  four  miles." 

"Motor-cars  are  stupid  things,"  said  Cynthia, 
gracelessly. 


120 


CHAPTER  XI 

"SOMEBODY  has  been  writing  silly  rubbish  in  the 
Game  Book,"  said  Frank,  frowning. 

"How  ill-bred!"  observed  Patty. 

"It's  going  too  far,  Patty,"  he  said  severely, 
laying  the  book  on  the  table,  after  again  scanning 
the  open  page.  "This  is  an  important  book.  It 
has  to  be  seen  by  the  owner  of  the  shoot." 

"What's  all  the  fuss  about?"  Patty  picked  up 
the  book.  "Is  it  this  record  day?"  She  read  out 
the  following  entry: — 

"  'Grouse     ...  68 

Black  Game      .         .  12 

Hares       ...  4 
Misses      .         .         .102 

Mesdames         .         .  99 

Other  remarks  .          .  3 

Age  last  birthday       .  1 9 

Date         .         .         .  25  .  8  .  06 


Total        .  332  .  8  .  06' 

That  was  a  good  bag,"  she  said. 

121 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Nugent  concluded  a  masterly  rendering  of  the 
Mikado  on  the  pianola.  "What  was  a  good  bag?" 
he  said. 

"That."  Patty  threw  the  book  at  him.  "Don't 
touch  it  until  you  have  washed  your  hands.  Frank 
says  it  is  a  very  important  book  and  must  be  treated 
respectfully."  (The  twins  quickly  came  to  Chris- 
tian names.) 

Nugent  read  the  entry,  and  laughed  indulgently 
at  the  childish  foolishness.  He  wiped  his  eyes  with 
his  handkerchief.  "A  hundred  and  two  misses!" 
he  repeated.  That  item  struck  him  as  especially 
laughable. 

There  was  a  rush  for  the  book  when  he  laid  it 
down.  The  whole  party  were  assembled  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  drawing-room  during  the 
half-hour  which  preceded  the  dressing-gong:  that 
is  to  say,  some  were  definitely  established  in  the 
room,  some  were  on  the  outskirts,  some  were  pass- 
ing to  and  fro:  it  was  the  centre  of  gravitation. 
At  that  moment  Laurence  came  in  through  the 
window.  He  had  been  playing  Badminton  with 
Peggy,  and  had  almost  contrived  to  stave  off  de- 
feat by  desperate  cheating.  Consequently,  that 
young  lady  was  heatedly  anxious  for  the  ear  of  the 
house.  But  the  group  round  the  book  distracted 
her  attention  and  she  immediately  plunged  into 
the  middle  of  it. 

122 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Laurence. 

"Patty  has  been  making  a  mess  of  the  Game 
Book,"  said  Frank,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Patty  the  incorrigible!  Patty,  your  sins  are 
accumulating  beyond  forgiveness." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Patty,  contritely,  coming  to- 
wards him.  "I'm  awfully  sorry,  Mr.  Cheyne.  I'll 
buy  you  another  book." 

He  took  her  two  hands.  "Patty  the  irresistible !" 

Bay,  having  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  glimpse 
of  the  entry  over  somebody's  shoulder,  detached 
herself  from  the  group  with  a  shrug  and  went  out 
of  the  room.  She  crossed  the  hall  and  made  her 
way  to  the  smoke-room.  In  this  masculine  menage 
it  was  the  room  least  likely  to  be  occupied.  It  was 
a  little  out  of  the  way,  and  no  one  had  much  object 
in  seeking  it.  It  is  only  in  houses  governed  under 
certain  feminine  auspices,  where  formality  and  de- 
corum reign  stiffly  in  the  principal  rooms,  that  the 
smoke-room,  however  remote,  becomes  a  refuge  of 
perpetual  resort. 

Bay  had  sought  temporary  solitude  to  go 
through  her  household  accounts.  These  were  a 
subject  of  weekly  concern  to  her.  In  an  establish- 
ment where  money  was  obviously  plentiful,  and 
which  was  served  by  tradespeople  who  had  their 
year's  harvest  to  gather  during  the  shooting  sea- 
son, it  was  impossible  to  avoid  being  swindled  a 

123 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

good  deal ;  but  she  tried  to  be  swindled  as  little  as 
a  determined  and  thoroughly  wide-awake  person 
could  contrive. 

To-day,  as  it  turned  out,  she  was  not  to  be  left 
long  undisturbed.  Laurence  Cheyne  had  followed 
her  from  the  drawing-room.  She  had  barely  seated 
herself  at  the  table  before  he  opened  the  door  and 
came  in. 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  the  tradesmen's  books.  She 
knew  who  it  was  without  looking  up.  It  occurred 
to  her  that  one  sometimes  vituperated  the  world, 
and  its  callousness,  and  its  discordance,  very  un- 
justly. 

Laurence  took  a  chair  near  her  and  folded  his 
arms  on  the  table. 

"Bay,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something  about 
your  friend  Mrs.  Elwes." 

The  blood  in  Bay's  veins  flushed  over  her  cheeks. 
Involuntarily  she  clenched  her  teeth  on  her  lip. 
She  wanted  to  shout.  Why  had  he  sought  her  in 
this  way?  Why  had  he  come  quietly  to  her  side 
to  ask  her  that? 

"Something  about  her  personal  history  and  cir- 
cumstances?" proceeded  Laurence,  as  he  received 
no  reply.  "You  brought  her  here  a  stranger,  and 
we  are  all  uncommonly  grateful  to  you,  but  one 
hardly  feels  to  know  her." 

Bay  ticked  off  several  items  in  the  butcher's 
124 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

book,  checking  them  with  the  kitchen  account.    At 
last  she  looked  up,  vivid  scorn  in  her  face. 

"What  is  that  to  you?"  she  said  fiercely. 

He  was  slightly  abashed.  "I  suppose  a  man  is 
naturally  interested  in  his  guests,"  he  replied. 
"What  a  firebrand  you  are!  I  don't  mean  to  be 
impertinent." 

"I  brought  her  here  for  Frank,"  declared  Bay, 
"and  I  told  him  so — not  for  you." 

"So  you  have  apportioned  us  all  off,"  said 
Laurence,  smiling.  "And  whom  have  you  allotted 
to  me?" 

He  looked  straight  into  her  eyes.  Her  courage 
wavered. 

In  an  instant  she  had  gripped  herself. 

"You!"  she  cried.  "You  are  an  old  bachelor. 
You  don't  count.  You  must  be  thankful  if  a 
woman  is  kind  enough  to  recognise  your  existence." 

He  laughed  good-naturedly.  "You  are  invalu- 
able, Bay,"  he  said.  "There  is  no  excuse  for  any- 
one becoming  complacent  who  has  the  unique  ad- 
vantage of  your  friendship." 

Bay  returned  to  her  books.  "Six  pounds — six 
pounds — what  on  earth  did  we  have  six  pounds  of 
on  the  fifteenth?  All  these  fiendish  tradesmen, 
without  exception,  write  illegibly.  I  suppose  they 
do  it  on  purpose  to  prevent  their  accounts  being 
checked." 

125 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Cheyne  took  the  book.  "Nobody  could  read 
this,"  he  said.  "Make  a  note  at  the  bottom, 
'Kindly  write  plainly/  and  send  it  back.  No,  no — 
pay  it — pay  it  and  have  done  with  it.  You  have 
bother  enough  in  looking  after  us  without  quarrels 
with  the  tradespeople.  Poor  beggars,  they  have 
their  living  to  make,  and  I  daresay  some  of  them 
have  a  struggle." 

"They  do  their  best  to  rob  you,"  said  Bay. 

"Let  them.  If  you  can  keep  us  fed  at  all — a 
household  of  this  size  in  the  country — you  will 
have  done  your  duty  nobly  and  more.  I  am  afraid 
one  is  always  rather  inclined  to  take  these  sorts  of 
things  too  much  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  know  it 
means  a  lot  of  trouble  and  thought,  and  so  does 
Frank.  The  whole  thing  would  have  been  a  pal- 
pable frost  but  for  you  and  your  contribution  to  the 
general  gaiety  in  the  shape  of  Mrs.  Elwes  and  the 
twins.  You  have  helped  us  through  gamely,  and 
I  hope  you  will  let  us  recognise  it  in  some  form  or 
other." 

Bay  deprecated  this  intention  with  a  little  smile 
whose  vague  forbearance  was  enigmatical  to  him. 
She  made  a  few  aimless  pencil  dots  in  the  butcher's 
book. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  about  my 
friend  Mrs.  Elwes?"  she  said  suddenly. 

126 


CYNTHIA  IN  'THE  WILDERNESS 

"What  sort  of  a  man  is  her  husband?  Why 
hasn't  he  been  asked  here?" 

She  laughed  at  him.  "A  noble  creature,"  she 
replied,  "a  splendid,  generous,  unselfish,  long-suf- 
fering hero.  He  immolates  himself  on  the  altar  of 
her  whims.  He  labours  for  her  without  ceasing, 
and  she  squanders  his  substance  in  frivolity  and 
clothes." 

Laurence  had  flushed  a  little  under  his  bronzed 
skin. 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  he  said  calmly. 

Bay  had  seen  the  flush.  Already — it  seemed — 
already  nothing  must  be  said  against  Cynthia. 

"Of  course  you  don't.  We  believe  what  we 
wish." 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly.  "Tell  me  the  truth, 
Bay." 

She  bit  her  lip.  "Her  husband,"  she  said  firmly, 
*'is  a  drunkard,  a  waster,  and  a  fool." 

"That  clears  the  air,"  said  Laurence. 

Bay  bent  over  the  table,  her  eyes  burning.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  may  have  in  your  mind  about 
Cynthia ;  I  don't  want  to  know.  But,  whatever  it 
may  be — I  make  you  a  present  of  this  information 
as  a  further  proof  of  my  invaluable  friendship — 
whatever  it  may  be,  you  will  be  justified  utterly  and 
eternally.  Only,  for  my  part,"  she  hissed  at  him, 

127 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

"if  you  try  to  make  love  to  her,  I  hope  she  will 
spurn  you,  I  hope  she  will  trample  on  you." 

"Very  evidently  I  am  in  your  bad  books  to- 
day," said  Laurence.  "Wherein  have  I  offended?" 

He  spoke  lightly,  but  there  was  an  under-quality 
of  slight  reproach  in  his  tone  and  in  the  look  he 
directed  upon  her.  She  had  whipped  him  to  a 
point  when  the  sting  of  injustice  was  just  felt. 

"Don't  be  appallingly  dense,"  she  cried.  Once 
more  she  dropped  her  eyes.  Then  she  lifted  them 
again  with  a  flash:  "Can't  you  see  I  am  baiting 
you?" 

"Well,  rather,"  said  Laurence.  "But  you  look 
decidedly  fierce  at  times,  Bay.  I  don't  think  you 
know  how  much  realism  you  can  put  into  an 
expression." 

"Is  there  no  one  in  the  world,"  said  Bay,  re- 
signedly, "who  can  be  trusted  beyond  the  limits  of 
trite  drawing-room  hypocrisy?  Not  even  you? 
Do  you  force  me  to  explain — oh,  the  ignominy  of 
it  I  oh,  the  bathos! — that  only  someone  whom  I 
genuinely  like  and  respect  would  I  trouble  to  in- 
sult." 

"I  am  a  dunderhead,"  said  Laurence.  "But  re- 
instate me  among  the  privileged.  Shake  hands 
on  it." 

He  held  out  his  open  palm.  After  hesitating, 
Bay  placed  her  small,  white  hand  in  it. 

128 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"You  are  trembling,"  he  said. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  sharply  and  got  up. 
"Drivelling  remark  number  one  in  the  new  dispen- 
sation." She  went  to  the  door.  "I  must  go  and 
dress." 

It  occurred  to  him  that  she  would  immediately 
see  Cynthia.  "Of  course,  we  have  been  talking  in 
the  confessional,"  he  said. 

She  gave  him  a  look,  partly  reproachful,  more 
contemptuous,  and  went  out  of  the  room  without 
speaking. 


129 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  Scottish  Sabbath  is  universally  admitted  to 
be  the  most  perfect  provocative  of  melancholy 
which  has  yet  been  discovered.  Even  Tannadice — 
far  removed  though  it  be  from  the  large  haunts 
of  men — came  under  the  shadow  of  the  national 
gloom.  The  keepers  and  fisherfolk,  the  small  farm- 
ers of  the  neighborhood,  with  their  womenfolk, 
paraded  lugubriously  in  their  blacks.  The  barest 
necessities  of  life  were  permitted  to  aliens  and 
others — the  barest  necessities  and  no  more. 

Mrs.  Hibbert  was  the  only  member  of  the  house- 
party  who  was  able  to  adapt  herself  with  any  suc- 
cess to  the  local  conditions.  She  came  down  in  a 
gown  of  appreciably  more  elaborate  workmanship 
than  those  she  wore  on  common  days,  even  at- 
tended the  small  kirk  in  the  hollow  by  the  loch, 
and  returned  in  the  freshest  of  spirits,  glowing 
with  effervescent  good-fellowship. 

"It  does  one  good  to  see  people  so  e?rnest  and 
devout  in  their  worship,"  she  declared.  "I  am 

130 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

sure  there  are  many  churches  in  England  which 
could  take  a  lesson  from  it." 

Mr.  Hibbert,  excellent  man,  had  accompanied 
her. 

The  rest  of  the  party  had  dribbled  into  the  gar- 
den after  breakfast,  with  the  initial  intention  of 
dealing  with  the  day  logically,  as  essentially  the 
tsame  as  other  days,  and  had  begun  illogically  by 
paying  some  attention  to  the  Badminton  net, 
which  was  not  on  other  days  an  object  of  regard. 
Finally  they  had  elected  to  forego  the  fascinations 
of  battledore  and  shuttlecock  out  of  consideration 
for  the  servants'  feelings,  and  had  spent  the  morn- 
ing in  desultory  chatter  or  in  clearing  off  arrears 
of  correspondence.  Four  peculiarly  intrepid  ones 
had  drawn  the  drawing-room  curtains  and  played 
bridge. 

They  all  considered  themselves  weak  in  declin- 
ing to  play  Badminton,  in  declining  to  practise  ap- 
proach shots  with  a  golf  club  on  the  open  ground 
near  the  loch,  in  declining  to  shoot,  even;  but,  in 
truth,  the  local  folk  were  so  good-hearted  and 
kindly  a  body  that  it  would  have  been  hideous 
work  to  wound  them  in  the  tenderest  of  their  sus- 
ceptibilities. It  was  not  merely  their  own  scrupu- 
lous and  sincere  observance  of  a  regime  they  be- 
lieved to  be  essential  to  their  immediate  and  final 
welfare,  which  induced  respect  of  their  sentiments : 


it  was  their  simple,  implicit  assumption  that  the 
attitude  of  everyone  else  must  of  necessity  be  the 
same. 

No  one  but  a  hardened  worldling  could  fail  to 
feel  for  these  primitive  folk.  It  is  the  position  of 
the  intellectual  Sabbatarian  which  is  the  enigma. 
The  duty  resting  upon  employers  of  labour  to  pro- 
vide their  work-people  at  least  a  day's  rest  in  seven 
is  manifest  to  all;  but  it  is  difficult  to  follow  the 
process  of  a  mind  which  can  apparently  genuinely 
believe  that  an  action  intrinsically  right  can  be 
made  wrong  by  the  movement  of  the  clock. 

Cynthia  had  now  been  more  than  a  fortnight  at 
Tannadice.  Even  in  the  week  which  had  elapsed 
since  her  walk  on  the  moor  a  considerable  volume 
of  water  had  run  down  the  stream  to  the  loch. 
Laurence  no  longer  told  his  shaving-glass  that  he 
must  be  on  guard  against  his  guest.  He  looked 
back  upon  the  time  when  he  could  harbour  so  cal- 
lous and  vulgar  a  view  of  the  other  sex  as  into  an 
unworthy  past — a  past  before  he  had  known 
Cynthia,  before  he  had  discovered  that  woman,  in 
her  dealings  with  mankind,  was  not  necessarily 
seeking  either  material  ends  or  fuel  for  her  vanity. 
Woman,  in  short,  was  entitled  to  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,  until  her  own  mouth  or  her  own  acts  con- 
victed her. 

So  much  had  Cynthia  done,  so  much  had 
132 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Cynthia  effected  in  the  outlook  of  a  man  believed 
to  have  relegated  women  to  the  corner  with  his 
dancing  pumps  and  his  French  novels,  as  pleasant 
trifles  to  be  played  with  in  an  idle  hour.  As  for 
Cynthia  herself,  the  happy  expansion,  the  sunny 
delight  of  her  present  life,  was  dimmed  only  by 
the  creeping  shadow  of  its  inevitable  end.  At  times 
she  almost  feared  to  let  her  spirits  run  to  their 
limit,  lest  the  reaction,  when  it  came,  should  be 
intolerable.  At  other  times — and  this  was  her 
more  common  mental  attitude — she  elected  to  slip 
thought,  to  slip  care,  to  slip  remembrance,  to  slip 
everything  but  the  delicious  present,  and  to  take 
long,  grateful  draughts  of  immediate  good  while 
she  might.  From  which  it  may  be  reasonable  to 
conjecture — whether  she  was  aware  of  it  herself  or 
not — that  there  was  a  quality  in  her  joy  for  which 
neither  the  new  environment,  nor  the  moor  air, 
nor  the  gaiety  and  irresponsibility  of  the  house- 
party  could  be  held  accountable. 

She  heard  from  Harvey  every  other  day.  His 
letters,  which  were  always  written  on  Golf  Club 
paper,  consistently  began  with  an  apology  for  haste 
and  brevity,  and  expressed  his  concern  for  her  in 
language  chosen  amid  distracting  interruptions. 
("Hurry  up  with  that  letter,  old  bhoy.")  He 
went  on  to  tell  her  of  the  remarkable  round  he 
would  have  played  the  previous  day  but  for  care- 

133 


less  putting  and  indifferent  luck  at  two  holes.  He 
informed  her,  also,  of  his  continued  success  at 
bridge  and  recorded  his  sympathy  with  Stillwell. 
Sprinkled  among  these  items  of  intelligence  there 
was  general  some  evidence  of  the  agitation  of  spirit 
which  the  first  mention  of  the  Tannadice  visit  had 
provoked.  He  reminded  her  repeatedly  of  his 
original  feeling  that  it  would  have  been  better  not 
to  separate,  particularly  for  her.  He  knew  how 
reckless  she  was,  and  entreated  her  not  to  go  out 
in  the  evening  insufficiently  wrapped  up  nor  to  sit 
in  damp  clothes.  He  had  inquired  more  than  once 
if  the  Cheynes  were  married  and  if  they  were  "nice 
sort  of  men."  The  exact  composition  of  the  rest 
of  the  household  also  interested  him,  more  espe- 
cially the  ages  and  dispositions  of  the  masculine 
members.  If  she  were  ever  subjected  to  the  least 
annoyance,  if  there  were  the  smallest  presumption, 
a  wire  would  bring  him  to  her  side.  His  own  con- 
venience was  of  no  account.  Cynthia's  replies  were 
not  long  and  they  were  not  effusive.  Still  she  re- 
plied; and  to  that  extent  his  soul  was  appeased. 

The  morning  of  the  Scottish  Sabbath  may  with 
determination  be  worn  through  without  acute 
ennui:  it  is  in  the  afternoon  that  the  pinch  comes. 
It  is  the  same  again ;  no  interruption  of  monotony, 
no  change  of  ill — the  same  again.  About  three 
o'clock  Laurence  Cheyne  was  sitting  in  the  garden 

134 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

amusing  the  twins,  when  he  remembered  that  the 
dreary  morning  had  decided  him — come  what 
might — to  go  down  to  the  stream  in  the  afternoon 
and  throw  a  fly.  The  fact  that  he  had  just  seen 
the  flutter  of  a  skirt  among  the  trees  where  the 
path  descended  held  out  a  pleasant  promise  of  com- 
pany. He  was  not  prepared  to  admit  that  it  had 
any  bearing  on  his  purpose,  except  to  remind  him 
of  it.  He  entered  the  house  by  the  French  window 
of  the  dining-room,  procured  his  rod  and  fly-hook 
without  noise,  and  picked  his  way  gingerly  down 
the  path,  in  imminent  dread  of  being  seen  by 
Donald. 

The  wood  which  surrounded  the  house  and  al- 
most covered  the  base  of  the  valley  had  been 
cleared  for  a  few  acres  at  the  point  where  the  path 
emerged,  leaving  a  grassy  glade,  through  which 
the  burn  ran.  Before  Laurence  came  out  from  the 
trees  he  saw  Cynthia  standing  on  a  foot-bridge 
which  spanned  the  stream.  She  was  looking  idly 
into  the  water.  The  sleeves  of  the  white  lawn 
shirt  she  was  wearing  fluttered  very  lightly.  He 
had  noticed  at  lunch  that  the  stock-tie  knotted  in 
a  bow  round  her  neck  was  of  precisely  the  same 
shade  as  her  belt,  and  it  had  struck  him  as  a  taste- 
ful thought  and  becoming  in  effect.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  he  had  seen  this  particular  harmony  in  a 
woman's  dress,  but  he  thought  it  was. 

135 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Cynthia  turned  away  without  seeing  him,  took 
up  her  skirts  to  descend  from  the  foot-bridge,  and 
walked  slowly  down  and  along  the  further  side  of 
the  stream.  She  had  a  book  in  her  hand.  Cheyne 
crossed  the  bridge  and  followed  her.  Presently 
she  came  to  a  large  wired  enclosure,  where 
pheasants  were  nursed.  She  stopped  and  looked 
through  the  netting.  There  were  no  pheasants 
there  now:  they  had  gone  to  the  wood;  soon  they 
would  go  to  the  larder.  Laurence,  in  conjunction 
with  Frank,  bought  these  pheasants,  reared  them, 
shot  them.  He  did  it  with  a  sort  of  contempt  for 
himself  and  for  his  species. 

Between  the  wire  fence  and  the  stream  there  was 
a  narrow  path.  Just  now  it  could  be  traversed 
dry-shod  with  a  little  care:  when  the  burn  was  in 
spate  it  was  impassable.  Cynthia  had  walked  about 
half-way  along  it  when  Laurence  overtook  her. 
She  turned  sharply  at  the  sound  of  his  footstep. 
He  put  out  a  hand  to  save  her  from  slipping  into 
the  water.  For  a  moment  she  was  close  to  him, 
touching  him,  almost  in  his  arms. 

"I  came  down  here  to  escape  from  the  Sabbath," 
she  said  lightly,  with  a  slight  catch  in  her  breath, 
which  might  have  been  the  result  of  the  start  or 
might  not. 

Laurence  dropped  his  arm,  but  it  came  back  to 
136 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

his  side  by  an  appreciable  effort  of  will,  with  the 
muscles  tense. 

"We  are  on  the  same  errand,"  he  replied.  "Sup- 
pose we  escape  a  little  further — go  up  to  the  moor, 
say?" 

"Willingly,"  said  Cynthia.    "Which  way?" 

"Keep  on  till  you  come  to  the  end  of  the  fence, 
then  turn  up  through  the  wood." 

They  walked  in  single  file  along  the  path, 
Cynthia  leading. 

"But  you  were  going  to  fish?"  she  said,  when 
they  had  cleared  the  wire,  seeing  his  rod. 

"Clandestinely  and  fearfully,"  replied  Laurence, 
with  a  laugh.  "I  would  rather  go  to  the  moor." 

"Really?"  There  was  a  ring  of  slight  challenge, 
slight  triumph,  in  the  interrogatory,  and  the  same 
quality  in  her  upward  look. 

"Really." 

He  met  her  eyes  deeply,  and  Cynthia's  gave 
way. 

"Come  along,  then,"  she  cried,  springing  away 
with  a  gay  laugh.  "This  is  delightful." 

"Look  out  for  the  boggy  places,"  he  called  after 
her.  "Wait  for  me." 

He  deposited  his  rod  by  the  fence,  threw  his 
reel  and  his  fly-book  beside  it,  and  followed  her. 
They  plunged  into  the  wood  and  struck  up  a  nar- 
row drive  cleared  for  pheasant-shooting.  At  inter- 

137 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

vals  white  stakes  were  driven  into  the  ground  to 
indicate  the  stations  of  the  guns.  Finally  they 
emerged  upon  the  lower  edge  of  the  moor. 

They  climbed  a  few  yards  higher,  until  they 
could  see  over  the  trees,  and  then  sat  down  to  rest. 
Below  them  slept  the  wooded  valley.  All  the  quiet 
life  of  the  little  colony  lay  on  the  further  side  of 
it,  out  of  earshot,  where  the  thin  white  road  curved 
along  its  slope,  past  the  upper  grounds  of  the  lodge 
(only  its  red  roof  was  visible  through  the  trees), 
past  Donald's  new  cottage  (they  could  see  the  dogs 
lying  idly  in  their  yards),  past  the  low,  rambling 
inn,  past  the  kirk,  past  the  few  scattered  home- 
steads, down  to  the  loch.  They  were  alone. 

"Did  you  choose  this  place  for  its  beauty  or  for 
the  grouse?"  said  Cynthia,  gazing  at  the  view  be- 
fore her,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  on  her 
clasped  hands. 

"May  I  smoke?"  said  Cheyne,  feeling  in  his 
pocket. 

"That  is  not  in  the  Tannadice  code." 

"To  smoke?" 

"No,  to  ask." 

"May  I  behave  politely  this  afternoon,  to  show 
that  it  is  possible?  I  am  rather  anxious  to  prove 
to  you  that  uncouthness  is  not  ingrained." 

"I  shall  not  think  that.  But  if  you  break  the 
138 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

rules  of  informality  I  skall  be  annoyed.  You 
haven't  answered  my  question." 

"The  answer  is  any  reasonable  odds  on  the 
grouse,"  said  Cheyne;  "but  I  can't  speak  certainly, 
because  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  choice  of  the 
shoot.  This  is  the  second  year  the  family  has  been 
represented  here.  Last  year  Frank  had  it  alone." 

"Where  were  you?" 

"In  Brazil." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Cynthia  said : 
"You  were  some  time  there?" 

"Three  years." 

Another  pause. 

"Shall  you  go  again?" 

"Not  there  necessarily,  but  probably  somewhere, 
when  I'm-tired  of  loafing." 

"How  stupid  of  you!"  The  comment  broke 
from  her  lips  almost  without  intention.  "What 
makes  you  spend  so  much  time  in  those  absurd 
places,"  she  added  quickly,  "when  you  could  live 
in  England?" 

"England  is  too  small,"  said  Cheyne:  "you  are 
always  coming  to  the  end  of  it.  There  is  no  room 
in  it  for  expansion  or  enterprise.  It's  a  kitchen 
garden,  and,  like  most  kitchen  gardens,  it  supplies 
about  a  fiftieth  part  of  the  needs  of  the  people  who 
own  it." 

"Still  you  like  it?    You  are  proud  of  it?" 

139 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Laurence,  "I  am  a  thorough 
patriot.  To  be  a  Briton  is  a  grand  birthright.  I 
would  renounce  every  ambition  rather  than  that 
privilege.  But  it  doesn't  suit  me  as  an  abiding- 
place.  When  I  have  been  at  home  six  months  or 
so  I  feel  the  necessity  to  be  moving — to  be  doing. 
I  suppose  I  was  born  with  the  roving  spirit." 

"Perhaps "    Cynthia  stopped  herself.    "Do 

you  mind  if  I  say  something?    Will  you  think  me 
impertinent?" 

"Very  much  otherwise." 

"Why  haven't  you  married?" 

"Do  you  blame  me?" 

He  sprung  the  question  upon  her  unexpectedly 
and  pointedly.  She  flushed  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

"Have  you  found  it  to  be  a  Paradise  you  can 
conscientiously  recommend?" 

He  spoke  jestingly,  with  a  laugh  in  his  voice. 
Her  downcast  face  twitched  and  her  bosom  moved. 

"Forgive  me."  He  got  up  and  offered  her  his 
hand.  "Let  us  go  on  a  bit." 

"I  spoke  without  thought,"  he  said,  when  they 
had  walked  a  few  yards.  "One  gets  into  the  habit 
of  chaffing  on  that  subject — an  outsider  such  as  I 
am — and  usually  married  folk  are  quite  willing  to 
assist  in  throwing  brick-bats  at  one  another.  That 
is,  I  suppose,  because — because " 

"Because  it  is  really  all  right,"  said  Cynthia. 
140 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  uttered  the  words  without  looking  up. 

Laurence  lowered  his  tone.  "May  I  say  that 
I  am  sorry  it  is  not  always  so  ?  That  it  is  not  so — 
I  fear — with  you?" 

Cynthia  still  walked  with  her  eyes  bent  upon 
the  ground.  After  an  interval  she  replied  quietly: 
"Yes,  you  may  say  that — you.  There  is  no  mys- 
tery. I  have  only  myself  to  blame.  I  closed  the 

gates  of  Eden  with  my  own  hands  when "  She 

hesitated. 

"When  you  signed  the  marriage  register?" 

She  said  nothing.  They  went  on  some  distance 
in  silence — the  beating  silence  that  feels  itself  the 
prelude  of  momentous  words.  They  came  to  a 
patch  of  heather  and  mechanically  followed  a  nar- 
row sheep  track  that  curled  through  it,  walking  in 
single  file.  Laurence  was  in  front. 

Suddenly  he  turned  and  faced  her.  She  tried 
to  meet  his  glance  with  one  of  commonplace  in- 
quiry. But  her  eyes  faltered  and  drooped.  He 
put  out  his  hands  and  took  hers.  She  surrendered 
them  passively. 

"Do  you  think  there  could  be  other  gates  of 
other  Edens?" 

She  made  no  reply.  Slowly  the  warm  blood 
came  into  her  cheeks,  coloured  them,  flooded 
them. 

141 


He  drew  her  towards  him. 
"Cynthia,  I  love  you." 
And  she  yielded  him  her  lips. 


142 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  very  silent  in  the  house — the  breathless 
silence  of  summer  night.  Cynthia  wondered  if  she 
would  ever  sleep — ever.  Around  her  the  whole 
house  slept — not  as  an  aggregation  of  individuals, 
it  seemed  to  her,  but  as  a  composite  whole,  expand- 
ing and  contracting  rhythmically.  She  turned 
again.  The  night-light,  intercepted  by  some  orna- 
ment, cast  an  indented  shadow  across  the  ceiling. 
Each  curve  and  angle  of  it  was  stamped  upon  her 
brain.  .  .  .  Was  Laurence  sleeping? 

An  indefinable  feeling  went  through  her,  as  if 
the  surrounding  slumber  very  slightly  had  been 
broken,  as  if  the  heavy  sleeper  had  stirred.  Then 
the  door  of  her  room  was  opened  softly,  and,  a 
moment  later,  softly  closed. 

She  did  not  move ;  she  did  not  turn  to  see.  She 
lay  quite  still — curled  up,  with  her  face  to  the  win- 
dow. Fearful  joy  quivered  and  beat  through  every 
nerve  and  every  vein. 

Suddenly  she  drew  the  bed-clothes  closer  about 
her. 

"You  knew  that  I  should  come,"  said 
Laurence. 

H3 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  night-light  was  burning  low.  Laurence 
had  dressed  by  its  glimmer.  He  paused  suddenly, 
with  his  hands  on  the  upturned  collar  of  his  flannel 
coat.  A  thump  upon  the  floor  of  the  adjoining 
room  had  been  plainly  audible,  and  it  was  followed 
by  the  sound  of  light  slippered  feet  moving  quickly 
to  and  fro. 

"Bay  must  be  awake,"  he  said. 

He  had  barely  spoken  when  the  communicating- 
door  was  flung  open  and  she  stood  in  the  aperture, 
wrapped  in  white,  righteous  and  wrathful,  like  an 
avenging  angel. 

"Go,  Laurence !  before  I  slay  you." 

Her  teeth  closed  on  the  words;  her  two  hands 
were  fiercely  clenched. 

"I  am  not  joking,"  she  said  determinedly;  "just 
now  I  could  kill  you  with  pleasure." 

"You  should  have  been  asleep,"  said  Laurence. 
He  had  no  serious  doubt  that  she  was  to  be  trusted, 
but  there  was  so  much  at  stake  that  he  was  a  little 
nervous. 

144 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Asleep!  Asleep  I"  Bay  echoed  the  word  with 
ironical  emphasis.  "Do  you  suppose  me  to  be  a 
dormouse  ?  Of  course  I  haven't  slept  one  solitary 
wink  all  night.  A  sphinx  on  a  pedestal  couldn't 
sleep  through  such  sounds  as  you  have  been  mak- 
ing. No,  I  won't  kill  you,"  she  went  on,  with  a 
slight  change  of  tone:  "I'll  give  you  a  punishment 
worse  than  death.  When  I  marry  again — as  I  in- 
tend to — I'll  chain  you  in  the  next  room  and  keep 
you  there  for  the  whole  of  the  honeymoon." 

"Bay,  you  are  splendid!"  He  took  a  step  to- 
wards her. 

"You  dare!"    She  faced  him  like  a  tigress. 

"I  daren't,"  said  Laurence,  meekly.  "Still,  we 
are  cousins."  He  became  very  lowly.  "At  least 
your  hand?" 

She  raised  it  and  pointed  to  the  door.  "Go !" 
she  said  again.  '  "Slink  away!" 

"If  ever,"  said  Laurence,  "anyone  should  take 
it  into  his  head  to  disparage  you,  Bay,  I  hope,  for 
his  sake,  it  will  not  be  in  my  presence,  because  I 
am  bigger  than  most  men." 

Upon  which  he  opened  the  door — not  too  soon, 
for  there  was  already  a  sound  of  movement  in  the 
servants'  quarters — and  left  the  two  women 
alone. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Bay  did  not  move. 
She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door  with  a  sober 

145 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

stare.  Cynthia  looked  at  her  from  the  pillows,  a 
little  shyly.  She  had  expected  she  would  rush  at 
her  when  the  door  closed,  and  this  blank  made  her 
feel  embarrassed  and  vaguely  unhappy. 

"It  is  lucky  it  is  someone  you  can  trust,"  said 
Bay,  at  length,  without  turning  her  head. 

"It  is  not  luck,"  said  Cynthia.  "It  was  sure, 
certain  knowledge,  dear.  I  knew  you  were  in  the 
next  room,  perhaps  awake,  and  that  I  could  trust 
you." 

"Oh,  you  can  trust  me.  That's  nothing.  But 
you  can  trust  him.  It's  easy  to  talk  in  heroics,  but 
if  it  came  to  a  question  of  dying  or  betraying  you, 
he  would  die." 

There  was  a  ring  in  her  voice,  a  strong,  confi- 
dent vibration,  which  caused  Cynthia  to  scan  her 
a  little  curiously.  It  was  alien  to  a  nature  which 
not  only  was  usually  undemonstrative,  but  which 
delighted  to  hide  its  real  depth  and  capacity  of 
feeling  beneath  a  thin  covering  of  asperity. 

"Come  into  bed,"  said  Cynthia,  suddenly;  "you 
are  cold." 

Bay  threw  off  her  wrap  and  snuggled  her  small 
form  into  the  warm  place  she  found  beside 
Cynthia.  She  buried  her  face  in  the  hole  in  the 
pillow ;  she  put  her  arms  beneath  it  and  pressed  it 
up  to  her.  For  a  while  she  lay  quite  still,  and  then 
a  tremor  shivered  through  her. 

146 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

"Bay,  what's  the  matter?"  There  was  a  note 
of  quick  anxiety  in  Cynthia's  voice. 

Bay  turned  round.  "Don't  be  quite  a  goat, 
Cynthia.  I  am  cold.  I  have  been  standing  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  with  very  little  on." 

"Come  closer  to  me.  Quite  close.  Bay,  I  am 
so  happy."  The  joy  that  was  glowing  through  her 
could  no  longer  be  kept  in. 

"That  is  superfluous  information,"  said  Bay, 
pungently. 

"It  was  mean  of  you  to  listen."  Cynthia  hid 
her  face. 

"I  did  not  listen.    You  forgot  the  door." 

"No,  I  didn't.  I  have  thought  of  the  door  for 
—for " 

"For  how  long?" 

"For  nearly  a  week,"  said  Cynthia,  with  rosy 
bravado. 

She  caught  her  friend's  hand  and  pressed  it  to 
her  cheeks,  blushing  and  laughing  in  ebullient  hap- 
piness. 

She  brought  her  glowing  face  close  to  Bay's  and 
spoke  in  quick,  intense  undertones:  "Bay,  I  have 
been  in  Eden — just  inside,  just  for  a  few  hours — 
only  long  enough  to  know  what  all  the  lucky  people 
find  there  who  live  there  always.  Ohly  for  a  few 
hours,  Bay,  but  I've  been  there,  and  now  I  don't 

147 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

mind  if  I  die.    I  couldn't  have  died  before.     But 
now,"  she  cried, 

-let  come  what  may, 


What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day.'  " 

Bay  averted  her  face  from  her  friend's  vivid 
gaze.  She  laid  her  cheek  close  on  the  pillow.  And 
once  again  a  slight  shiver  went  through  her. 

"There  must  be  something  the  matter,"  said 
Cynthia,  viewing  her  with  renewed  concern.  This 
persistent  cold  douche  from  one  whom  she  had  ex- 
pected to  rejoice  with  her  was  perplexing  and  de- 
jecting. "You  are  so  strange.  Aren't  you  glad, 
for  my  sake  ?  It  would  take  away  half  my  happi- 
ness if  I  thought  you  were  not.  You  know  what 
a  hollow,  miserable  mockery  my  marriage  has  been. 
Do  you  think  I  have  done  wrong?" 

"Wrong?  Oh,  no,"  said  Bay,  with  a  slight 
touch  of  bitterness,  still  with  her  face  in  the  pillow. 

"What  then?" 

"Goat!"  Bay  turned  on  her  suddenly.  "Do 
you  suppose  a  woman  is  so  very  keen  to  hear  about 
things  she  is  shut  off  from  herself?" 

"You  are  jealous !  You  dear,  you  are  jealous," 
cried  Cynthia.  "Oh,  don't  grudge  me  my  little 
glimpse  of  Eden,"  she  went  on,  with  soft  urgency. 

148 


"You  are  much  better  off — you  are  not  shackled 
to  an  incubus — you  have  all  the  world  to  choose 
from — and,  when  you  have  chosen,  you  can  live 
there  perpetually." 

"When  I  have  chosen !"  said  Bay.  "Happiness 
has  unbalanced  you,  Cynthia :  you  are  usually  sane. 
That  is  a  common  phrase  and  a  foolish  one.  It 
suggests  that  one  picks  a  husband  as  one  would  pick 
a  hunter,  by  examining  the  points  of  a  string  of 
them." 

"A  clever  woman  can,"  insisted  Cynthia;  "and 
you  are  a  clever  woman." 

"Am  I  ?"  said  Bay.    "I  doubt  it." 

"It  is  unkind  of  you  to  be  so  cynical,"  said 
Cynthia,  reproachfully.  "You  are  such  a  sweet, 
sympathetic  old  dear,  as  a  rule.  Whatever  hap- 
pens, nothing  can  take  the  past  from  you.  You  can 
never  have  that  utterly  desolate  feeling  that  you 
may  die  without  having  lived.  You  have  been 
happily  married  for  a  time.  However  short  it 
was,  you  can  always  say  to  yourself  that  you  have 
'had  your  day.'  But  I  never  had  a  day — never  in 
my  life — before." 

Bay  leaned  a  little  towards  her  and  put  out  her 
hand.  "Yes,  I  ought  not  to  be  greedy,"  she  said, 
in  a  changed  tone.  "But  wasn't  there  a  'day'  even 
at  first?" 

"I  might  have  thought  so,  in  ignorance.  What 
149 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

don't  silly  women  think?  No,  no — I  never  thought 
so.  I  knew  always  I  was  the  best  crockery — al- 
most too  fragile  to  touch." 

"If  you  didn't,  you  would  know  now."  Bay 
gave  vent  to  a  little  dry  laugh.  "You  were  not  the 
best  crockery  last  night." 

"I  shall  pad  the  door  in  future,"  said  Cynthia. 

"You  won't  need  to,"  said  Bay.  "I  shall  sleep 
in  another  room." 

Cynthia  laughed  joyously.  "I  don't  care,"  she 
cried,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  emotion.  "You  can  be 
as  cynical  and  caustic  and  Bayish  as  you  like.  I 
don't  care  what  you  say;  I  don't  care  what  you 
think.  He  will  come  again — yes,  every  night  while 
I  am  here.  Of  course,  I  know  most  people  would 
think  it  was  horribly  sinful :  they  would  say  I  ought 
not  to  let  him;  they  would  say  much  worse  than 
that."  She  put  her  arms  about  Bay  and«clutched 
her  in  a  storm  of  excitement.  "But  I'm  going  to — 
going  to — going  to!" 

She  sat  up  in  bed.  The  light  was  now  glimmer- 
ing through  the  window.  Animation  had  flushed 
her — her  dark  hair  streamed  over  her  shoulders — 
lovely  beyond  quibble.  Bay  looked  at  her  with  un- 
grudging admiration. 

"I  owe  it  all  to  you,  dear,"  Cynthia  went  on, 
gazing  raptly  at  the  growing  light.  "I  said,  show 

150 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

me  a  man  to  love,  and  I  would  love  him.  You 
showed  him  me,  and  I  love  him — I  love  him." 

She  did  not  turn  when  she  had  spoken.  She  sat 
without  moving,  looking  still  at  the  window.  The 
light  in  her  eyes,  shining  with  a  child's  pure,  radi- 
ant happiness  in  her  new-found  joy,  after  her 
stunted  and  blighted  years,  touched  the  generous 
springs  of  sympathy  and  selflessness  that  lay  deep 
within  Bay.  Her  love  for  her  friend  overcame 
every  other  feeling.  She  sat  up  beside  her  and 
wrapped  her  in  her  arms. 

"Cynthia,  darling,  I  am  glad  you  are  happy." 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  GOLDEN  moon  in  its  first  quarter  was  setting 
over  the  loch.  The  pale  yellow  light,  running  in  a 
rippled  line  across  the  water  from  the  background 
of  black  mountain,  made  a  scene  inspiring  in  its 
quiet  beauty.  Laurence  and  Cynthia  saw  it  from 
the  moor.  But  they  barely  noticed  it:  they  were 
engrossed  with  one  another.  It  was  Cynthia's  last 
evening  at  Tannadice.  After  dinner  they  had  con- 
trived to  escape  from  the  rest  of  the  party,  who 
were  going  down  to  the  mouth  of  the  burn  to  plash 
for  sea-trout,  and  had  crossed  the  road  and  climbed 
to  the  top  of  that  part  of  the  moor  where  the  old 
road  runs  over  to  the  neighbouring  village  of 
Bridges — little  used  since  the  owner  made  the  new 
macadam  highway  by  the  coast. 

They  walked  slowly  down  the  grass-grown 
track,  talking  earnestly.  Laurence's  hands  were 
clasped  behind  him.  On?  of  Cynthia's  arms  was 
slipped  through  his;  the  other  hand  held  up  the 
skirt  of  her  evening  gown. 

"Then  I  am  afraid,"  he  was  saying,  "that  it 
152 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

would  have  been  happier  for  you  if  we  had  never 
met." 

Cynthia  stopped  and  looked  steadily  up  into  his 
face  in  the  faint  light.  "I  wouldn't  not  have  met 
you,"  she  said  slowly,  "I  wouldn't  not  have  known 
you,  I  wouldn't  not  have  loved  you  for  all  the 
world." 

"And  yet  you  are  flying  from  me.  In  spite  of 
every  argument  and  every  entreaty  I  can  bring  to 
bear  on  you,  you  are  going  back  to  the  life  you 
came  from." 

"I  can't  make  you  understand,"  said  Cynthia. 
"Even  the  memory  of  these  few  weeks,  the  knowl- 
edge that  I  have  loved  you  and  that  you  have  loved 
me,  will  make  me  more  content  and  better  able  to 
face  life.  I  can  never  be  quite  unhappy  again." 

He  took  her  hands.  "Cynthia,  I  ask  you  to  give 
me  your  life,  all  your  life,  from  now  onward;  to 
trust  it  to  me?" 

"Oh,  you  know  how  I  want  to  I  Don't  make  me 
fight  it  out  again  with  you :  I  am  worn  out  with  the 
fight  with  myself." 

"Are  you  afraid  I  should  fail  you?" 

"No,  no." 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  a  sin?" 

"No,"  said  Cynthia,  steadily.  "I  am  not  fright- 
ened of  God — He  is  just — but  I  am  frightened  of 
the  world." 

153 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"I  will  protect  you  from  the  world." 

"You  cannot,"  said  Cynthia;  "not  even  you.  No 
man  ever  has  been,  nor  ever  will  be,  able  to  protect 
a  woman  from  the  world.  As  yet  we  have  come 
before  no  other  tribunal  than  our  own  consciences, 
and  those  exculpate  us.  But  to  go  away  with  you 
and  live  with  you  openly  and  avowedly  would  shut 
me  off  from  the  world  and  from  myself.  It  would 
make  me  for  ever  a  woman  of  reproach.  You 
can't  say  it  wouldn't,  Laurence.  You  know  it  as 
well  as  I." 

"He  would  divorce  you." 

"I  don't  know — he  is  mean  and  little.  And,  if 
he  did,  it  wouldn't  altogether  remove  the  reproach. 
The  world  doesn't  forgive  those  who  offend 
against  its  institutions,  whatever  they  may  do  to 
propitiate  it.  It  won't  allow  them  to  make  amends. 
That  which  we  have  done  is  the  only  sin — the  only 
unforgivable,  unforgetable  offence.  Everything 
else  can  be  lived  down,  will  be  soon  annulled.  The 
world  has  a  short  memory  for  other  things. 
Thieves,  swindlers,  gamblers,  virtual  murderers  it 
quickly  takes  to  its  heart  again.  But  for  a  breach 
of  what  is  called  the  'moral  law'  there  is  no  ob- 
livion— ever." 

Laurence  drew  her  towards  him  forcefully.  He 
bent  his  head  and  looked  deep  into  her  eyes.  His 

154 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

face  had  set  in  lines  of  steady  purpose  and  con- 
trolled passion. 

"Leave  the  world  to  wallow  in  its  sty,"  he  said. 
"Be  true  to  yourself.  Live  your  life  strongly  and 
completely — not  a  cramped,  stunted,  miserable 
travesty  of  life.  There  is  no  future  for  me  without 
you ;  I  cannot  let  you  go." 

She  lowered  her  face  to  escape  his  gaze;  but  he 
put  his  hand  on  her  head  and  bent  it  back,  forcing 
her  to  look  at  him. 

"We  will  buy  a  villa  in  Italy  or  the  Riviera — 
somewhere  overlooking  the  sea — and  live  there — 
you  and  I." 

"Don't,  dearest,  don't." 

She  felt  throbbing  in  her  veins  the  blood  of 
every  woman  who  had  lived  since  Eve. 

"You  would  like  it?" 

"Oh,  I  long— I  long." 

He  took  her  hands  again  and  gripped  them  with 
such  force  that  she  could  have  cried  out  with  pain. 
"Come  with  me." 

She  turned  up  to  him  eyes  which  shone  with 
mute  appeal ;  but  beneath  it,  through  it,  above  it, 
in  it,  there  was  love — infinite,  all-absorbing — such 
love  as  has  turned  men  mad  and  driven  them 
through  blood  to  their  mistresses. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  binding  her  within 

155 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

them.  "You  shall  come:  I  will  not  live  without 
you." 

Cynthia  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  The 
struggle  was  well-nigh  beyond  her  strength.  For 
days  she  had  fought  and  fought,  but  never  against 
such  determined  force  as  this.  She  felt  she  could 
endure  no  longer.  Her  powers  of  resistance  had 
been  weakened  by  the  daily  battles  with  herself 
and  with  him.  This  terrific  onslaught,  coming  at 
the  very  last,  taxed  her  reduced  resources  beyond 
the  limit  they  were  capable  of  meeting — beyond 
the  limit,  surely,  which  could  be  permitted  to  be 
put  upon  her  if  she  were  expected  to  sustain.  And 
yet  she  had  so  hoped  to  win  through.  And  there 
was  Eric.  Her  tears  wetted  his  sleeves.  His  en- 
circling arms  felt  deep  sobs  shake  her  frame. 

His  resolution  did  not  abate.    "You  will  come?" 

She  held  his  arm  tight  between  her  hands  and 
pressed  her  eyes  upon  it,  trying  to  staunch  her 
tears.  "If  it  were  I  alone,  I  would  come.  I  would 
go  through  shame,  disgrace,  obloquy,  everything, 
for  you — with  you." 

"Well  ?"    His  voice  was  almost  harsh. 

"But  there  is  Eric.  I  cannot  leave  him;  and  I 
cannot  shame  him." 

"He  shall  come,  too." 

"That  would  not  prevent  his  knowing.  As  he 
gets  older,  he  would  hear  the  world's  judgment; 


he  would  see  me  shunned."  She  raised  her  face, 
glistening  with  tears,  and  looked  up  at  him.  "I 
would  not  have  him  grow  up  to  despise — or  even 
to  feel  he  ought  to  despise — his  mother." 

For  a  time  Laurence's  strong,  peremptory  grip 
did  not  relax.  Then  suddenly  he  loosened  her — 
held  her  still  in  his  arms,  but  loosened  her.  It  was 
like  the  heavy  slackening  of  the  muscles  of  a  boat's 
crew,  when  they  sink  over  their  oars  after  a  hard 
race  in  which  they  have  been  defeated. 

For  he  had  been  defeated.  He  had  put  himself 
to  the  task  of  breaking  Cynthia's  resistance  with 
the  steadfast  determination  to  carry  his  purpose. 
He  genuinely  believed  that  to  do  so  would  promote 
her  happiness;  and  he  was  vividly  conscious  that, 
for  his  own  part,  life  was  no  longer  of  the  smallest 
value  without  the  slender,  elusive  piece  of  human- 
ity that  for  the  moment  he  held  in  his  arms.  Her 
appeals,  while  such  love  stood  in  her  eyes,  were  of 
no  avail  to  move  him ;  even  her  tears  he  could  have 
steeled  himself  to  ignore.  They  would  quickly  be 
wiped  away,  and  many  more  would  be  saved  her, 
unless  he  were  completely  untrue  to  himself.  Those 
things  were  powerless  to  affect  his  resolution.  But 
this  last  argument  he  was  not  proof  against.  He 
did  not  believe  it  possible  that  Eric  would  grow 
up  to  despise  her;  but  he  believed  it  very  possible 
that  she  might  grow  to  suspect  it,  to  imagine  it,  to 

157 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

raise  it  as  a  permanent  bogey  athwart  her  happi- 
ness; that  it  might  come  eventually  to  sap  the  foun- 
dations of  spontaneity  and  confidence  between 
mother  and  son. 

He  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her.  "I  shall  not 
press  you  any  more,"  he  said. 

She  wound  her  arms  round  his  neck.  For  a  while 
she  did  not  speak.  "You  are  strong  enough  to 
yield,"  she  whispered,  her  lips  on  his.  "I  can't 
speak  what  I  feel:  I  feel  too  much.  Dearest,  we 
have  enjoyed  for  one  another,  and  now  we  must 
suffer  for  one  another,  but  even  the  suffering  will 
be  joy,  because  our  common  heart-ache  will  be  the 
link  that  binds  us." 

They  walked  on  slowly  along  the  grass-grown 
road.  On  one  side  of  them  the  hill  sloped  sharply 
down  to  the  loch;  on  the  other  the  moor  swept 
away  into  the  gathering  mists.  Clumps  of 
heather  at  a  short  distance  loomed  like  bushes.  The 
time  was  approaching  when  they  would  have  to 
descend  to  the  house. 

"I  may  come  and  see  you  whenever  I  am  in 
London?"  said  Laurence,  presently. 

Cynthia  did  not  reply  for  a  few  seconds.  "We 
have  gained  so  much  and  at  such  cost,"  she  said 
then.  "Is  it  worth  risking  everything  for  an  oc- 
casional meeting?  We  could  not  meet  as  strangers, 
nor  even  as  ordinary  acquaintances.  And  at  every 

158 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

parting  we  should  have  the  same  battle  to  go 
through  again,  and  we  might  not  always  win  it." 

"At  least  I  can  write?"  said  Lawrence. 

She  laid  a  hand  on  each  of  his  shoulders  and 
looked  up  into  his  face.  "What  could  we  say  that 
we  shall  not  always  know  without  words,  that  we 
could  either  of  us  ever  doubt?  Nothing  can  shake 
my  love  for  you,  nothing  can  touch  my  love  for 
you ;  it  will  continue  unchanging,  without  break  or 
lull,  to  the  end  of  my  life.  To  write  and  tell  you 
of  it  would  not  affect  it ;  it  could  not  strengthen  it. 
My  love" — her  voice  broke  a  little — "My  love, 
you  must  not  write." 

He  covered  her  hands  with  his  own  as  they 
rested  on  his  shoulders.  "Oh,  but  I  must,"  he  said. 

"Well — Laurence,  we  are  very  foolish." 

"Well—?    Go  on." 

"Once." 

"That  is  a  very  solitary  word  in  a  lifetime, 
Cynthia." 

"Once — a  year." 

There  were  voices  in  the  road  below — a  sound 
of  feet  moving  quickly — light  laughter.  A  lantern 
flashed. 

"They  are  coming  back  from  the  plash,"  said 
Laurence.  "We  must  go  down." 

She  clung  to  him.  It  seemed  to  her  now  that 
she  could  not  let  him  go.  If  he  had  appealed  to 

159 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

Her  again  to  give  her  life  to  him  she  would  have 
yielded  helplessly.  Her  strength  was  all  gone.  It 
was  Laurence's  turn  to  hold  the  helm  against 
the  tide.  For  a  long  minute  he  pressed  her  close  in 
his  arms,  while  their  lips  met.  Then,  without 
speaking  again,  he  led  her  gently  down  the  slope 
till  they  came  to  the  road. 

The  plashing  party  were  just  approaching.  "Any 
luck?"  he  called  to  them. 

"Ten,"  cried  Patty,  gaily,  giving  voice  to  the 
word  a  half  second  before  the  rest,  "and  a  good 
size.  It  was  quite  safe,  Mr.  Cheyne.  You  could 
have  come  without  getting  your  feet  wet." 

She  was  clinging  to  Frank's  arm,  and  made  a 
clutch  at  the  fish-basket  he  carried  on  the  other 
side,  to  exhibit  its  contents. 

"What  do  you  think  of  plashing  as  a  pastime, 
Nugent?"  said  Laurence,  looking  into  the  basket 
by  the  light  of  the  lantern. 

"It  helps  the  larder,"  said  Nugent,  equivocally. 

"Not  your  idea  of  sport?" 

He  smiled  with  kindly  satire.  "Poor  beggars !" 
was  all  he  said. 

"It  is  far  less  cruel  than  playing  them  with  a 
rod  and  line,"  said  Mrs.  Hibbert,  breathlessly. 
[(They  had  walked  fast  up  the  hill.)  "I'm  sure 
I  should  think  so  if  I  were  a  fish." 

1 60 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

"If  you  were  a  fish,"  said  Bay,  "what  you  would 
think  would  be  unimportant." 

Late  that  night  Cynthia  bent  over  Eric's  cot. 
The  night-light  shed  its  faint  glow  upon  them — 
upon  her  shimmering  silk  gown  and  smooth  neck 
and  shoulders — fell  softly  on  the  sleeping  child. 
Eric  lay  on  his  side,  a  light  flush  of  health  on  his 
little,  round  check.  He  was  breathing  regularly. 
A  cheap  alarum-clock  on  the  mantelpiece  ticked 
loudly.  The  nurse  was  asleep. 

Would  he  grow  up  to  be  thoughtful  of  others? 
Would  he  grow  up  to  repay  her  for  the  stupendous 
sacrifice  she  was  making  for  him? 

She  waited  a  long  time.  One  by  one  tears  fell 
and  dropped  on  his  pillow.  He  muttered  a  little 
in  his  sleep,  and  turned,  and  slept  on. 


161 


CHAPTER  XVI 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  September,  having  brought 
his  holiday  at  Brancaster  to  a  prosperous  conclu- 
sion— or,  to  be  quite  accurate,  when  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  quartette  found  it  incumbent  upon  them 
to  resume  harness — Harvey  Elwes  duly  re-estab- 
lished himself  in  Neville  Road.  This  event,  as  it 
happened,  preceded  his  wife's  return  by  a  few  days 
— a  circumstance  upon  which  he  received  the  felici- 
tations of  his  friends.  No  intelligent  Britisher, 
obviously,  but  could  appreciate  the  advantages  of 
two  or  three  days'  bachelor  freedom  in  town.  In 
the  train,  on  the  way  to  Liverpool  Street,  they  in- 
vited themselves  to  a  sort  of  commemorative  din- 
ner at  his  house  on  the  following  night. 

Harvey  did  not  want  them.  Sublimely  uncon- 
scious of  the  beam  in  his  own  eye,  he  felt  instinc- 
tively that  their  presence  would  be  a  desecration  of 
Cynthia's  abode;  but,  fearful  of  appearing  penu- 
rious, he  allowed  himself  to  be  convinced  of  his 
plain  duty.  Furthermore,  though  he  accepted  their 
felicitations  in  the  spirit  becoming  a  man  who  con- 

162 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

trols  his  own  roost,  he  found  little  food  for  private 
satisfaction  in  the  extension  of  his  bachelor  liberty. 
On  the  contrary,  he  felt  distinctly  concerned  by  the 
fact  that  his  wife  could  make  her  arrangements  to 
return  at  leisure,  after  having  been  apprised  of  the 
date  when  his  company  would  again  become  avail- 
able. This  important  announcement  had  been  con- 
veyed by  telegram. 

To  the  uttermost  of  his  capacity  he  was  fond  of 
Cynthia — he  supposed  it  to  be  the  absorbing  devo- 
tion of  a  strong  man — and  he  was  excessively 
proud  of  her.  He  delighted  especially  to  be  seen 
with  her  at  large  gatherings,  to  observe  the  admira- 
tion evoked  by  his  property.  It  gave  him  a  glow 
of  pleasant  satisfaction  to  see  that  other  men — 
men,  perhaps,  whose  talents  had  received  more 
general  recognition  than  his  own — were  able  only 
to  produce  wives  with  attractions  manifestly  much 
inferior  to  Cynthia's. 

He  got  into  his  cab  at  Liverpool  Street,  there- 
fore, without  that  dancing  sense  of  freedom  which' 
his  companions  had  assumed  as  the  necessary  con- 
sequence of  his  fortunate  case.  His  holiday  had 
been  a  pleasant  one,  but  he  wanted  to  be  going 
home  to  a  warm  welcome  and  not  to  an  empty 
house.  He  wanted  to  see  the  glad  joy  in  Cynthia's 
face  as  he  stepped  once  again  across  the  threshold 
after  their  long  separation.  He  desired  her  so- 

163 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

ciety;  he  had  a  right  to  her  society.  He  felt  more 
than  ever  convinced  that  the  visit  to  Scotland  had 
been  a  mistake.  His  instinct  had  told  him  so  from 
the  first.  The  people  there  would  not  understand 
the  exquisite  delicacy  and  refinement  of  Cynthia's 
nature.  They  would  know  nothing  of  the  tender 
guard  and  scrupulous  consideration  to  which  she 
had  been  accustomed.  They  would  treat  her,  per- 
haps, as  an  ordinary  woman.  He  flushed  at  the 
thought.  He  would  have  felt  less  uneasy  about  her 
environment  and  the  influences  surrounding  her  if 
her  letters  had  contained  more  frequent,  indeed 
some,  reference  to  the  gap  left  in  her  life  by  his 
absence.  It  was  unnatural  that  she  should  enjoy 
herself  peacefully  without  him.  Moreover,  he 
could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  a  wife's  place 
is  by  her  husband's  side. 

The  Brancaster  party  had  varied  in  one  instance 
from  that  originally  contemplated.  John  Jacob's 
domestic  claims  had  failed  to  yield  to  diplomacy, 
and  so  his  place  had  been  filled  by  a  rather  short, 
firmly  built  gentleman,  with  a  plump,  round  face 
and  bushy  moustache,  whose  name  was  Craven,  but 
who  was  known  familiarly  as  "the  Vet." — a  sobri- 
quet which  owed  its  origin  partly  to  his  fondness 
for  dogs  and  partly  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  medical  profession.  He  was  remarkable 
principally  for  an  encyclopaedic  knowledge  of  tech- 

164 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

nical  and  statistical  detail.  When  a  matter  was 
in  dispute,  a  fact  in  doubt,  it  was  the  custom  to 
apply  confidently  to  the  Vet.  He  knew  everything, 
from  the  rules  of  golf  to  the  solar  parallax.  If 
anyone  challenged  his  accuracy,  he  was  prepared 
to  argue  the  point  at  length,  with  authorities  and 
illustrations,  and  if  his  opponent  remained  still 
recalcitrant,  to  bet  upon  it.  He  was  one  of  the  few 
of  his  personal  friends  whom  Harvey  had  ventured 
to  introduce  to  Cynthia.  He  could  sit  in  a  draw- 
ing-room without  having  the  appearance  of  an  ex- 
otic from  the  bar;  though,  to  be  sure,  the  natural 
culture  which  he  had  at  command  had  become  a 
little  tarnished  in  e very-day  life  by  the  too-frequent 
companionship  of  Masters  and  his  school.  In  the 
matter  of  alcohol  he  could  keep  going  with  suffi- 
cient steadiness  to  make  him  a  worthy  and  desirable 
member  of  the  fraternity,  but  he  did  not  make  a 
boast  of  it,  nor  was  it  an  indispensable  condition 
of  his  existence. 

It  was  to  him  that  the  idea  of  the  commemora^ 
tive  banquet  owed  its  inception.  To  this  function 
John  Jacob,  as  one  of  those  contemplated  in  the 
original  scheme,  was  bidden  by  special  demand. 
The  dinner  passed  off  with  remarkable  vivacity, 
and  in  the  genial  calm  which  succeeded  it  they  all 
made  speeches.  The  toasts,  though  not  always 
particularly  applicable  to  the  occasion,  at  least 

165 


pointed  without  ambiguity  to  the  person  qualified 
to  reply. 

Masters  opened  the  ball  by  proposing  "The 
Game  of  Golf."  Golf,  he  remarked,  was  a  game 
which  called  for  exceptional  skill — skill  in  selecting 
the  precise  point  between  perfect  sobriety  and  acute 
intoxication  when  only  it  could  be  played  with  suc- 
cess. Their  esteemed  host,  he  believed,  was  the 
only  person  in  the  world  who  was  able  to  do  him- 
self justice  under  conditions  which  involved  asking 
his  caddy  if  an  object  in  front  were  a  cow  or  the 
flag.  He  thought  he  was  right  in  saying  that  it 
was  in  such  circumstances  that  he  had  holed  his 
record  putt  of  354  yards — the  never-to-be-forgot- 
ten occasion  when  he  had  done  the  last  hole  in  one, 
of  which  they  had  all  heard  with  profound  pride. 
For  his  own  part,  he  preferred,  on  the  whole,  to 
take  matters  the  other  way  round.  He  looked 
upon  golf  as  an  excellent  inspirer  and  incentive  of 
the  more  serious  business  of  drinking.  He  had 
sometimes  been  asked  which  was  his  favourite  hole. 
He  had  no  hesitation  in  replying  that,  on  all  the 
courses  over  which  he  had  had  the  privilege  of 
playing,  his  favourite  hole  was  the  nineteenth.  He 
never  missed  a  putt  on  the  nineteenth  green.  It 
was  a  source  of  continual  amazement  and  regret 
to  him  that  courses  did  not  include  a  QA  hole.  It 
was  the  only  serious  complaint  he  had  to  make 

166 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

against  the  management  of  Golf  Clubs  generally — 
this  absence  of  a  small  auxiliary  bar  at  the  end  of 
the  outward  half.  It  appeared  to  him  scandalous 
to  expect  the  human  machine  to  run  for  two  hours 
without  lubrication.  He  commended  his  sugges- 
tion to  his  friend  Stillwell  for  consideration  at  the 
next  committee  meeting.  On  his  own  private  ac- 
count alone  he  could  promise  the  new  venture,  if 
adopted,  sufficient  support  to  ensure  a  profit. 

Stillwell,  as  the  man  with  the  lowest  handicap, 
cleared  his  throat  and  said  a  few  words  in  reply; 
quietly  recording  it  as  his  individual  opinion,  which 
he  did  not  unduly  press,  that  golf  and  alcohol  was 
each  very  well  in  its  way,  but  that  they  did  not  run 
smoothly  in  double  harness.  After  which  Masters, 
suppressing  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  the  company 
to  revert  to  general  conversation,  again  rose  and 
proposed  "The  Medical  Profession."  He  dwelt 
upon  the  enormous  benefits  which  humanity  as  a 
whole  owed  to  the  disinterested  efforts  of  that  skil- 
ful and  hard-working  body  of  men.  Some  people 
were  ungracious  enough  to  complain  of  their 
charges.  For  his  own  part,  he  never  objected  to 
pay  a  doctor's  fee — he  thought  it  was  worth  it,  to 
get  him  out  of  the  house.  The  only  thing  doctors 
ever  said  to  him  was  that  he  was  ruining  his  con- 
stitution by  the  use  of  intoxicating  liquors.  He 
was  thankful  to  see  opposite  him  that  evening — in 

167 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

the  person  of  Dr.  Craven — a  more  clear-sighted, 
up-to-date,  a  more  generally  enlightened  member 
of  the  profession.  He  invited  the  company  to 
drink  to  the  increased  power  of  his  elbow. 

The  Vet.  rose  slowly,  and  after  briefly  depreca- 
ting the  introduction  of  shop  at  a  convivial  gather- 
ing, begged  to  suggest  an  adjournment  for  bridge. 
But  Masters  was  not  yet  done  with.  Having  moist- 
ened his  throat,  he  got  once  again  to  his  feet  and 
gave  "Domestic  Ties."  His  friends,  he  felt  sure, 
would  agree  with  him  that  the  importance  of  home 
life  to  the  Commonwealth  could  hardly  be  over- 
estimated. The  nation  which  neglected  its  home  life 
was  on  the  high  road  to  decay.  In  this  country 
it  had  always  occupied  an  outstanding  place  among 
our  national  institutions.  It  was  at  once,  he  might 
say,  the  foundation  of  our  prosperity,  our  buttress 
and  our  glory.  He  rejoiced  to  think  that  there  was 
sitting  by  his  side  a  gentleman  who  was  one  of  its 
most  conspicuous  props.  As  Britons  they  all  owed 
him  a  debt  of  gratitude.  His  patriotic  fervour  had 
carried  him  to  the  point  of  declining  a  much-needed 
holiday  among  his  friends.  What  Englishman,  he 
asked,  could  do  more?  At  the  same  time,  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  reflect  that  his  enthusiasm  in  the 
cause  of  state  had  not  led  him  to  overlook  other 
weighty  claims  upon  his  attention.  No  one 
ever  heard  John  Jacob  call  "time"  before  half- 

168 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

past  twelve  o'clock.  It  had  been  his  privilege  to 
sample  whisky  in  his  company  in  most  of  the  bars 
in  London,  and  he  had  pleasure  in  testifying  that 
John  Jacob  had  always  kept  fairly  in  step.  He 
coupled  the  toast  of  "Domestic  Ties"  with  the 
name  of  his  friend  on  the  right;  of  whose  irrele- 
vant comments,  he  might  remark,  he  was  the 
pained  auditor. 

John  Jacob  jumped  to  his  feet  with  a  genial 
laugh.  Masters  was  having  a  shy  at  him — he 
could  trust  Masters  to  do  that.  Well,  he  had  three 
infants,  indisputably,  and  he  was  glad  of  it.  They 
were  astonishingly  'cute  youngsters.  Masters  had 
been  married  fifteen  years  without  profiting  the 
nation.  He  looked  upon  that  as  a  record  to  be 
ashamed  of.  Anyhow,  he  would  propose  the  health 
of  their  generous  host,  to  whom  they  were  all 
grateful  for  an  uncommonly  pleasant  evening;  and 
he  might  add  that  the  port  was  first-class. 

The  third  bottle — following  champagne  and 
liqueurs — was  now  on  its  rounds.  In  these  circum- 
stances, Harvey  rose  with  a  steadily  glazing  eye 
and  replied  with  marked  feeling. 

"It's  very  good  of  you  all,"  he  said.  "I'm  very 
glad  to  see  you  here.  We  owe  a  lot  to  our  friends. 
A  great  poet  has  said  that  the  price  of  a  friend  is 
beyond  rubies.  I  feel  its  truth.  At  this  moment 
I  feel  its  truth.  Friendship  is  a  blessing  in  dis — 

169 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

Friendship  is  a  blessing"  (firmly).  "  'There  is  a 
friend  that  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother.'  Looking 
round  me  to-night,  looking  round  my  table  and 
seeing  the  familiar  faces  sitting  on  my  chairs,  I  can 
conscientiously  endorse  the  writer  of  those  words. 
Before  we  separate — no — pardon  me — that  is  to 
say,  before  I  conclude — there  is  a  pleasant  duty 
which  falls  to  my  lot — a  toast  to  propose — which 
I  am  sure  you  will  all  honour."  He  raised  his 
glass  with  oscillating  solemnity:  "Gentlemen,  the 
King." 

The  loyal  toast  having  been  duly  drunk,  there 
was  further  reference  to  bridge.  A  general  move- 
ment followed.  No  one  particularly  suggested  it; 
a  consensus  of  feeling  in  favour  of  locomotion 
translated  itself  into  action.  They  lounged  into 
the  hall,  their  cigars  still  alight,  and  turned  in  the 
direction  of  the  drawing-room.  Masters's  hand 
was  almost  on  the  knob  before  Harvey,  who  was 
behind,  recognised  his  intention.  Instantly  he  made 
a  dash  through  them,  rather  unsteadily,  his  face 
hot.  He  grasped  the  door-frame  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  with  a  little  difficulty,  turned  the  key,  put 
it  in  his  pocket,  and  faced  them  defiantly. 

"All  right,  don't  get  shirty,  old  bhoy,"  said 
Masters,  somewhat  taken  aback. 

"We  are  not  going  in  there,"  said  Harvey. 

He  took  them  to  a  small  room  upstairs;  and 
170 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

there  they  left  him  at  half-past  one:  the  fact  that 
he  had  ceased  to  be  more  than  intermittently  con- 
scious of  their  presence  appearing  to  indicate  that 
their  departure  would  not  cause  him  serious  dis- 
tress. He  had  not  drunk  more  than  the  rest,  but 
his  head  was  the  weakest. 

In  the  morning — as  was  invariably  the  case  with 
him  after  a  dilapidated  night — he  arose  from  his 
bath  as  fresh  as  Venus  from  the  sea.  Since  the 
Courts  were  not  sitting,  to  go  to  his  Chambers 
would  manifestly  have  been  waste  of  time.  He 
occupied  the  morning  in  "getting  through  some 
correspondence,"  as  he  phrased  it,  later  in  the  day, 
to  the  Vet.  It  consisted,  in  fact,  in  sending  long- 
awaited  replies  to  letters  from  Marie  and  another 
young  lady.  He  always  felt  a  glow  of  virtuous 
satisfactionwhen  such  epistles  had  been  despatched. 
He  was  not  one  of  those  men  who  behaved  with 
brutal  callousness  to  girls  who  had  trusted  them. 
While  they  desired  his  fellowship,  it  should  be 
theirs,  whatever  the  tedium  to  himself. 

He  spent  the  afternoon  and  eveningwith  Craven. 
The  latter  possessed  independent  means  and  took 
care  that  his  practice  should  not  be  exacting.  On 
the  following  afternoon  he  returned  the  visit.  This 
was  the  day  that  Cynthia  was  coming  back;  but, 
since  her  train  did  not  arrive  until  after  ten.  Har- 

171 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

vey  felt  that  his  guest  could  comfortably  be  dis- 
posed of  before  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  go  to 
Euston.  He  told  him  at  an  early  stage  that  his 
wife  was  returning  in  the  evening,  and  repeated 
the  information  at  intervals.  He  also  told  him 
that  he  had  ordered  an  omnibus. 

They  engaged  in  a  series  of  games  of  piquet 
across  a  corner  of  the  dining-room  table — an  exer-  \ 
cise  in  which  the  host  consistently  came  off  second 
best.  The  Vet.  played  slowly  and  steadily,  and  he 
invariably  could  change  Harvey's  florins  and  half- 
crowns,  and,  later,  his  half-sovereigns.  He  was 
not  a  shark,  but  he  had  a  working  knowledge  of 
the  principles  of  the  game. 

Towards  seven  o'clock  they  heard  a  ring  of  the 
front-door  bell. 

"Don't  move,"  said  Harvey,  with  an  air  of 
great  sang-froid.  The  Vet.  had  given  no  sign  of 
moving.  "Someone  who  wants  my  wife,  probably." 

A  maid  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

Harvey  pricked  up  his  ears  in  a  fluster  of  con- 
sternation. "That's  my  wife's  voice,"  he  cried. 
"It's  my  wife,"  he  repeated  aggressively,  as  if  his 
companion,  in  some  unaccountable  way,  were  re- 
sponsible for  it. 

"Well,  hadn't  you  better  go  out  and  meet  her?" 
said  the  Vet.  He  spoke  with  a  slight  drawl. 

17.1 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

Harvey  replaced  the  spirit-stand  in  the  side- 
board. In  the  same  movement,  by  a  feat  of  leger- 
demain, he  suggested  the  non-existence  of  his  tum- 
bler. The  Vet.,  observing  a  somewhat  anxious 
glance  in  his  direction,  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
pushed  his  own  glass  back  a  few  inches,  until  it  was 
partially  concealed  by  an  ornament  on  the  mantel- 
piece. 

By  the  time  Harvey  reached  the  front  door 
Cynthia  had  returned  to  the  cab  to  obtain  some 
small  packages.  With  the  greatest  alarm  in  his 
face  he  relieved  her  of  these  and  assisted  her  care- 
fully up  the  steps. 

"I  didn't  expect  you  till  half-past  ten,"  he  said 
hurriedly.  "I've  ordered  an  omnibus." 

"Oh,  we  started  at  an  absurd  time  this  morn- 
ing," said  Cynthia,  "and  caught  an  earlier  train 
at  Glasgow.  I  thought  the  other  was  too  late  for 
Eric." 

"I  was  coming  to  meet  you,"  he  said.  "I  was 
coming  to  Euston.  Why  didn't  you  wire  ?" 

"It  was  a  rush  at  Glasgow  and  there  was  no 
necessity;  we  were  coming  by  an  earlier  train,  not 
a  later.  Move  away :  the  man  wants  to  come  past 
with  the  luggage." 

He  started  aside,  and  Cynthia  walked  into  the 
dining-room.  The  Vet.  rose  from  his  corner  and 
came  sturdily  across  the  room. 

173 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

She  remembered  him  after  a  second's  hesitation. 
"Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Dr.  Craven?  For  a  moment 
I  didn't  see  who  it  was." 

"You  have  had  a  long  journey,"  said  he. 

"Yes,  and  rather  tiresome.  But  on  the  whole 
we  have  managed  to  get  through  it  creditably." 

Harvey  drew  Cynthia  aside  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity. "I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  whispered  quickly. 
"Of  course,  I  didn't  know  you  were  coming  so 
soon.  I'll  get  rid  of  him  in  a  few  minutes." 

"Why?"  said  Cynthia.  "I  don't  object  to  him. 
I  shall  ask  him  to  stay  to  dinner." 

Indeed,  she  was  immensely  relieved  to  find  a 
third  person  in  the  house.  Having  settled  into  the 
daily  routine,  she  felt  she  could  face  her  life  grimly 
and  make  it  bearable.  But  the  tete-a-tete  of  the 
first  evening,  the  fussy  inquiries,  the  fidgety  solici- 
tude and  punctilious  endearments,  had  weighed  on 
her  as  a  heavy  ordeal  to  be  faced. 

The  Vet.  cheerfully  consented  to  remain  for  din- 
ner. Indeed,  he  had  come  with  that  intention. 

Harvey  was  much  perturbed  about  the  omnibus. 
When  Cynthia  had  gone  upstairs  he  took  counsel 
with  his  friend. 

"You  see,  I've  ordered  it,"  he  said;  "I  expect 
I  shall  have  to  pay  for  it.  It's  an  awful  nuisance. 
What  would  you  do,  Vet.  ?" 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"You  might  wire,"  said  the  Vet.,  "or  you  could 
take  a  cab  to  Huston  and  countermand  it,  or  go  on 
foot.  Personally,  I  should  telephone." 


175 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  spite  of  her  heart-hunger,  in  spite  of  the  fierce 
insistence  of  the  might-have-been,  Cynthia  found 
her  life  appreciably  easier  to  live  than  it  had  been 
before.  She  was  rid  of  the  dreary  sense  of  utter 
exclusion,  of  that  desolateness  of  a  child  sitting 
upstairs  in  a  lonely  nursery  while  its  elders  make 
merry  below.  She  had  felt  hitherto — if  we  may 
vary  the  figure — that  she  was  walking  along  a  dull, 
flat  road,  hearing  on  every  side  of  her  sounds  of 
mirth — music  and  laughter — which  she  could  not 
reach,  which  she  could  not  even  attribute  to  a  defi- 
nite cause.  Merely  she  knew  of  its  existence.  And 
always  she  saw  plainly  at  the  end  of  her  road — get- 
ting daily,  hourly,  closer — old  age,  the  limit  of 
youth,  the  limit  of  joy. 

That  feeling  of  permanent  exclusion  from  known 
possibilities  of  unknown  happiness  was  now  re- 
moved from  her  finally.  Henceforth  every  joyous 
note  bore  its  meaning  to  her,  every  vibrating  string 
struck  an  answering  chord  in  her  heart.  She  could 
face  old  age,  the  decay  of  vitality  and  of  charm,  the 

176 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

atrophy  of  her  powers  of  joy,  without  repining. 
She  could  look  round  upon  her  fellows  without  the 
slight  touch  of  cynicism  which  had  tinged  her  out- 
look hitherto,  but  with  a  gentle  outpouring  of  wide 
sympathy,  which  felt  with  them  alike  in  their  pleas- 
ures and  in  their  sorrows.  For  she  had  tasted — 
she  herself — the  unimaginable  sweetness  of  the 
gracious  good  that  is  given  to  us  with  the  breath 
of  life. 

Moreover,  for  the  future  there  was  softened  for 
her,  dulled  for  her,  the  awful  knowledge  that  she 
was  lonely.  Every  human  atom  is  essentially  and 
everlastingly  lonely.  By  the  beneficent  power  of 
love  it  is  possible  to  escape  from  its  insistence,  in 
some  measure,  in  life ;  by  love  some  have  attempted 
to  escape  from  it  in  death.  Its  full  sense  had  borne 
upon  Cynthia  even  in  life.  Now  it  was  different. 
Though  it  might  be  that  she  would  never  see 
Laurence  again,  it  was  an  immense  consolation,  an 
immense  support  and  strength  to  her,  to  know  that 
there  was  a  fellow-creature  with  whom  she  had 
been  one,  in  whose  arms  she  had  lived  and  felt, 
who  had  lived  and  felt  in  her  arms,  and  who  hun- 
gered as  she  hungered.  Her  comfort  lay  in  the 
priceless  knowledge  that  there  is  a  unity  of  human 
atoms,  a  brief  unity  of  two  entities  so  complete 
and  so  perfect  as  almost  to  destroy  the  indestruc- 
tible reality  of  individual  solitude. 

177 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

As  time  went  on,  the  result  of  all  this  showed 
itself  in  her  intercourse  with  Harvey.  She  listened 
to  his  frothy  chatter,  bore  with  his  affectations, 
made  excuses  to  herself  for  his  flagrant  faults,  with 
an  all-embracing  goodwill  which  had  not  been  pos- 
sible to  her  before.  In  short,  she  submitted  amia- 
bly to  be  the  best  china.  If  ever  he  exhibited  a 
tentative  design  to  open  the  door  of  her  glass-case, 
she  reminded  him  quietly  of  the  rebuff  which  she 
would  never  forgive.  Whereupon  he  withdrew 
his  hand  quickly  and  apologetically,  even  with  some 
relief.  Such  virginal  coldness  pleased  him ;  it  con- 
formed with  his  etherealised  view  of  her,  the  view 
which  had  been  responsible  for  the  rebuff. 

He  was  greatly  gratified  by  the  general  soften- 
ing of  her  tone  to  him.  It  argued  that  his  value 
had  become  apparent  during  the  dull  weeks  in 
which  she  had  been  deprived  of  his  watchful  solici- 
tude. Habitual  benefits  too  often  fail  of  apprecia- 
tion. Now  that  it  was  all  over,  he  confessed  to 
himself  that  he  had  felt  a  little  hurt  by  the  off-hand 
manner  in  which  latterly  she  had  accepted  his  un- 
remitting attentions.  He  might  not  be  perfect — 
he  quite  recognised  his  human  limitations — but  he 
knew  that  he  lavished  thought  and  care  upon 
Cynthia  such  as  few  husbands  gave  to  their  wives. 
It  was  a  source  of  satisfaction  to  him  to  reflect 
that,  if  these  uncommon  virtues  should  again  fall 

178 


into  the  ruck  of  unregarded  routine,  he  had  only 
to  absent  himself  to  throw  them  into  striking  re- 
lief. 

Matters  took  a  turn,  however,  which  consider- 
ably deranged  his  calculations.  One  morning,  after 
they  had  been  home  about  two  months,  he  came 
downstairs  to  find  only  a  single  letter  on  the  break- 
fast-table. This  was  lying  by  Cynthia's  plate.  She 
was  not  yet  down.  There  was  nothing  else,  not 
even  an  advertisement.  He  took  it  up  and  looked 
at  it.  It  was  bulky  and  the  handwriting  was  un- 
familiar. He  pressed  it,  turned  it,  examined  the 
postmarks.  Finally  he  returned  it  to  its  place, 
puzzled  and  vaguely  ill  at  ease.  He  thought  he 
knew  all  Cynthia's  correspondents.  It  appeared  to 
him  peculiar  that  a  wife  should  receive  a  letter  ad- 
dressed in  writing  which  her  husband  could  not 
immediately  identify.  However,  he  was  not  one 
of  those  small,  suspicious  men,  prone  to  distrust 
every  trifle,  prone  to  think  the  worst  of  those  of 
whom  they  should  think  the  best.  There  was  noth- 
ing mean  and  unworthy  in  the  conditions  governing 
his  and  Cynthia's  intercourse.  They  had  reached 
a  far  higher  level  of  mutual  respect  than  that.  He 
should  ignore  the  letter.  He  unfolded  the  morn- 
ing paper  and  sat  down,  content  to  await  develop- 
ments with  dignity  and  reserve. 

Presently  Cynthia  opened  the  door  and  came  in. 
179 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  ran  up  to  the  fire  and  warmed  herself.  It  was 
December  and  there  had  been  a  frost  during  the 
night. 

"Good-morning,  Harvey.  I  am  sorry  to  be  so 
late.  You  should  have  begun  breakfast.  Things 
went  wrong  with  me :  I  thought  I  should  never  be 
dressed." 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Harvey;  "I  don't  mind  at 
all.  I  was  looking  at  the  paper." 

"But  how  cold  it  is !  I  am  shivering.  Put  out 
the  spirit-lamp,  or  the  coffee  will  all  boil  away." 

It  was  bubbling  high  in  a  wide  glass  cylinder 
above  a  shining  bronze  pot.  Harvey  extinguished 
the  lamp.  As  he  did  so,  he  took  another  glance  at 
the  letter.  It  drew  his  eye  against  his  will  with 
powerful  fascination.  The  envelope  was  large  and 
square  and  plain.  It  was  not  a  tinted  envelope  of 
arbitrary  shape  and  sumptuous  texture,  such  as 
women  use.  The  handwriting  was  plain,  too,  and 
vigorous.  It  formed  the  name  without  indecision, 
almost  aggressively:  "MRS.  ELWES."  No  one 
could  doubt  that  the  letter  had  found  its  way  to  the 
person  for  whom  it  was  intended;  no  one  could 
doubt  that  the  writer  knew  that  person  to  be  the 
wife  of  himself.  And  decidedly  it  was  bulky. 

"It  is  too  cold  now  for  you  to  dress  without  a 
fire,"  he  said.  "If  it  goes  out,  you  should  have  it 
lighted  again.  You  run  foolish  risks." 

180 


She  got  up  lightly.  "Don't  talk  rubbish,"  she 
said.  "I  am  warm  again  now.  Feel."  She  gave 
him  her  hand. 

He  held  it  solicitously  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
leaning  forward,  touched  her  cheek  with  a  respect- 
ful morning  salute^ 

He  took  his  place  at  the  table  and  Cynthia  sat 
down  behind  the  coffee-pot.  Her  eye  immediately 
lighted  on  the  letter.  She  picked  it  up  mechanic- 
ally and  ran  her  finger  beneath  the  flap,  splitting  it 
open.  The  paper  was  tough  and  yielded  with  dif- 
ficulty. At  sight  of  the  letter  it  contained  she  hesi- 
tated momentarily,  unfolded  it  and  read  the  first 
sentence,  turned  it  quickly  and  looked  at  the  signa- 
ture. Then  she  quietly  replaced  it  in  its  envelope 
and  began  to  pour  out  the  coffee.  She  had  flushed 
a  little. 

Harvey  had  been  watching  her  closely.  He  had 
seen  the  letter,  had  seen  that  it  was  of  many  sheets, 
closely  written,  had  seen  that  she  was  moved  by 
the  sight  of  it.  Red  points  had  come  into  his 
cheeks. 

He  bent  a  little  forward.  "Anything  the  mat- 
ter?" he  said  with  nervous  quickness,  as  she  looked 
up. 

"Oh,  no."    She  passed  him  his  coffee. 

"Who  is  it  from?"  The  words  spurted  out 
irrepressibly,  like  bubbles  from  a  cauldron. 

181 


CYNTHIA  IN.  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Really,  Harvey!" 

"I  think  I  ought  to  know." 

"You  will  not  know  while  you  ask  in  that  way." 

Harvey  managed  to  shut  down  his  impatience. 
By  this  time  he  was  tingling  with  a  sense  of  injury. 
He  considered  he  was  entitled  by  right  to  an  answer 
to  his  question ;  but  he  knew  Cynthia  well  enough 
to  realise  that  he  would  not  obtain  one  by  peremp- 
tory insistence. 

"I'm  sorry  I  spoke  hastily,"  he  said,  after  a 
short  pause.  "Is  there  any  mystery  about  the 
letter?" 

"No,"  said  Cynthia.  "It  is  from  Bay's  cousin, 
Mr.  Cheyne.  You  remember,  we  stayed  at  his 
house  in  Scotland." 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  got  to  terms  of  corre- 
spondence." 

"Well,  you  know  now." 

"I  think  he  ought  to  have  written  to  me  first." 

"Why?"  Cynthia  smiled  sedately.  "To  ask  per- 
mission?" 

"Yes,"  said  Harvey,  stubbornly. 

"And  would  you  have  graciously  granted  it?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  mustn't  try  to  climb  on  the  high  horse," 
said  Cynthia.  "You  can't  do  it  with  dignity.  And 
will  you  please  pass  me  something  to  eat?" 

"The  visit  to  Scotland  was  a  mistake,"  said 
182 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Harvey,  after  ruminating  for  a  while.  "I  thought 
so  from  the  first." 

"Why,  lately  you  have  been  telling  me  just  the 
reverse,"  said  Cynthia:  "that  it  made  me  appre- 
ciate you  ever  so  much  more,  and  that  you  thought 
we  ought  to  separate  every  year  for  our  holiday." 

"I  was  misled." 

"Really!    By  whom?" 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  had  friends  behind  my 
back." 

"Harvey,  be  careful." 

"You  haven't  read  the  letter." 

"No ;  I  don't  intend  to  at  present." 

"It  is  a  very  long  one." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"I— I  saw  it." 

A  flush  of  anger  mounted  to  Cynthia's  cheek. 
It  passed  and  left  her  cold. 

"We  will  change  the  subject,  please,"  she  said 
quietly. 

There  was  finality  in  her  tone  which  Harvey  did 
not  dare  to  disobey.  But  he  could  not  talk  of  other 
things.  He  was  miserably  agitated.  He  continued 
his  breakfast  in  chafing  silence,  untasting.  It  was 
impossible,  he  said  to  himself,  that  Cynthia's  life 
could  hold  a  "guilty  love";  impossible  that  it  could 
enclose  a  "shameful  secret."  (He  gulped  mentally 
at  the  phrases  of  his  own  choosing.)  And  yet  she 

183 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

had  received  a  long  letter  in  a  strange  hand;  she 
had  changed  colour  at  the  sight  of  it;  she  had  ad- 
mitted that  it  came  from  a  man  who  had  taken  no 
steps  to  make  his  acquaintance;  and  she  was  keep- 
ing it  to  read  in  private.  He  writhed  under  the 
suggestion  contained  in  these  facts,  partly  through 
simple  jealousy,  aroused  by  his  genuine  affection 
for  Cynthia;  more,  perhaps,  from  the  blow  to  his 
self-esteem.  He  was  struck  in  his  tenderest  part 
by  the  thought  that  his  wife,  the  woman  whose  life 
was  fostered  by  his  love  and  his  care,  could  find 
room  in  her  being  for  an  alien  attachment. 

His  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  the  maid,  Cynthia  was  wanted  at  the  telephone. 

She  rose  at  once.  "Don't  wait  for  me,  Harvey," 
she  said. 

She  was  quite  aware  that  she  was  leaving  the 
letter. 

His  ears  followed  her  footsteps  down  the  hall. 
For  some  moments  he  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the 
table,  fretfully  biting  his  moustache.  Then  he  got 
up  abruptly,  blushing  at  the  thought  in  his  mind. 
Still  hesitating,  he  waited,  standing  by  his  chair. 
The  time  was  passing.  He  crushed  his  qualms, 
moved  silently  to  the  door  and  listened.  He  heard 
Cynthia  speaking  at  the  telephone.  That  ended 
his  indecision.  He  went  quickly  back  to  the  table, 
treading  on  his  toes,  and  picked  up  the  letter.  His 

184 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

ears  were  straining  while  his  fingers  dipped  into  the 
envelope.  He  drew  out  several  sheets  of  note- 
paper  closely  covered  with  writing.  His  hands 
shook  a  little  as  he  unfolded  them. 

The  first  words  struck  him  in  the  face  like  a 
physical  blow.  Incredulous,  cringing  beneath  the 
sudden  staggering  shock  to  the  huge  edifice  of  self- 
esteem  erected  by  his  foolish,  pompous  little  mind, 
he  read  on,  turning  the  pages  feverishly — listening 
all  the  time.  His  colour  changed  to  white,  and 
then  to  flaming  splenetic  scarlet.  One  could  find  it  in 
one's  heart  to  be  sorry  for  him ;  the  crash  upon  his 
sufficiency  was  so  unexpected  and  so  complete. 

He  had  barely  reached  the  end  of  the  first  sheet 
when  he  heard  the  ear-piece  of  the  telephone 
clicked  back  into  its  holder  and  Cynthia's  footsteps 
returning  along  the  passage.  Quickly  refolding 
the  letter,  he  attempted  to  replace  it  in  its  envelope. 
In  his  nervous  haste  he  failed  to  keep  the  corners 
square  and  it  would  not  go  inside.  He  crushed 
and  twisted  it  with  frantic  force.  The  envelope 
split  down  the  edge,  but  still  declined  to  receive  it. 
Cynthia's  step  was  already  at  the  door.  In  ex- 
tremity he  relinquished  his  attempt  and  adopted  a 
different  attitude. 

"I  have  read  that  letter,"  he  said,  as  she  came 
in.  "I  thought  it  my  duty.  I  don't  think  it  is  the 
sort  of  letter  a  married  woman  ought  to  receive." 

185 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

Cynthia's  eyes  blazed.    She  stopped  at  the  door 
absolutely  still. 


He  turned  a  little  pale.  He  felt  afraid  of  her. 
Her  majestic  indignation  awed  him  and  cowed 
him. 

"I  don't  think  it's  the  sort  of  letter  a  married 
woman  ought  to  receive,"  he  repeated,  avoiding 
her  eyes. 

Cynthia  did  not  speak  again.  He  felt  her  eyes 
burning  through  him  while  he  slowly  returned  the 
letter  to  its  envelope  and  dropped  it  by  her  plate  — 
while  he  gathered  up  the  morning  paper  from  the 
floor  —  while  he  pretended  to  look  for  his  pipe  on 
the  mantelpiece  —  while  he  walked  out  of  the  room. 


186 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart."  So 
said  Byron ;  and  we  must  concede  that  he  was  quali- 
fied to  express  an  opinion.  Some  sort  of  exempli- 
fication of  the  assertion  could  be  found  in  the  case 
of  Laurence  Cheyne.  He  did  nothing  lightly:  he 
worked  strongly',  felt  strongly,  loved  strongly. 
Cynthia  had  gone  to  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart 
— he  could  never  again  be  free  of  the  pervading 
influence  of  her  personality — but  she  had  quietly 
and  determinedly  taken  herself  out  of  his  life. 
Yet  it  had  to  be  lived,  and  the  only  means  to  make 
it  tolerable  was  strenuous  work.  Shortly  after  his 
return  from  Scotland  he  had  received  the  offer  of 
an  administrative  appointment  in  West  Africa. 
After  consideration  he  had  decided  to  accept  it. 
It  meant  leaving  England  in  January,  and  it  was 
of  this  that  he  had  written  to  acquaint  Cynthia, 
adding  much  else  from  the  store  of  unsaid  things 
which  had  accumulated  during  two  or  three  months 
when  thought  had  not  been  idle. 

About  the  same  time  he  cama  to  town  to  see 
187 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

various  officials  and  to  make  various  preliminary 
arrangements.  His  visits  to  London  were  not  fre- 
quent, and  in  consequence  they  were  largely  occu- 
pied by  the  claims  upon  him  of  his  many  friends. 
To  dine  alone  at  his  hotel  was  an  experience  they 
scarcely  included.  He  lunched  one  day  at  a  cluB 
in  Pall  Mall,  another  at  a  flat  in  Chelsea,  a  third 
in  a  City  restaurant.  Sometimes  he  forgot  to  lunch 
altogether.  Among  the  rest,  he  spent  an  evening 
with  some  friends  in  Kensington.  It  was  a  fine 
night,  and  he  set  off  on  foot  for  the  first  part  of 
his  return  journey,  intending  to  take  a  cab  later. 
He  would  not  have  suspected  himself  capable  of 
sentimental  foolishness.  He  believed  he  was 
prompted  to  pedestrianism  by  lack  of  exercise.  Yet 
he  had  twice  chosen  that  means  of  progression 
through  the  particular  region  which  enclosed 
Cynthia's  abode.  The  direct  route  did  not  take 
him  past  her  house,  and  he  went  not  a  step  out  of 
his  way.  Still,  he  walked  when  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances he  would  have  driven.  And  he  was  quite 
aware  that,  for  a  short  while,  he  was  breathing  air 
within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  her. 

An  occasional  late  motor  'bus  wailed  up  the 
Brompton  Road;  an  occasional  hansom  jingled 
past  him ;  otherwise  the  streets  were  quiet.  As  he 
was  approaching  South  Kensington  station  he  be- 
came interested  in  a  cab  coming  towards  him.  The 

1 88 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

driver  was  walking  his  horse  and  glancing  uncer- 
tainly from  side  to  side,  rather  as  if  in  search  of  a 
fare.  Yet  there  was  a  passenger  in  the  hansom — 
a  man  in  evening  dress,  who  was  occupying  prac- 
tically all  the  seating  accommodation  and  appeared 
to  be  quite  unconcerned  by  the  cabman's  method  of 
driving. 

"What's  the  matter,  cabby?"  said  Laurence,  as 
they  came  abreast. 

"GenTman  can't  quite  rec'lect  his  number,"  said 
the  cabby. 

"Probably  there  are  some  papers  about  him  that 
would  solve  the  difficulty,"  said  Laurence.  "Ask 
him." 

The  cabman  lifted  the  trap.  "P'raps  there'd 
be  some  letters  in  your  pockets,  sir,  what  would 
help  you,"  he  called  through. 

On  the  question  being  repeated,  the  passenger 
grunted  and  told  him  to  "Drive  on." 

"But  I  don't  know  where  to  drive  to,"  said  the 
cabby,  beginning  to  lose  patience. 

"He  doesn't  know  where  to  take  you,"  said 
Laurence,  putting  a  foot  on  the  step  and  looking 
in.  "Have  you  a  card  with  you — some  letters — 
anything — showing  the  address?" 

The  passenger  clapped  his  hand  upon  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  his  breast-pocket.  "Prive  letts,"  he 
said  aggressively. 

189 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Yes,  but  there  may  be  an  address  on  the  out- 
side" said  Laurence,  calmly  and  distinctly. 

The  face  of  the  gentleman  in  the  cab  showed 
dawning  comprehension  of  this  striking  contin- 
gency, and  by  slow  degrees  became  illuminated 
with  admiration  of  Laurence's  inductive  powers. 
He  fumbled  inside  his  coat  for  some  moments  with- 
out succeeding  in  reaching  the  interior  of  a  pocket. 
Eventually  he  gave  up  the  hopeless  task  and  smiled 
benignly.  "Prive  letts,"  he  said. 

Laurence  conquered  an  intense  inclination  to 
laugh  and  pulled  open  the  doors.  "Try  again,"  he 
said.  "Let  me  help  you." 

With  his  considerable,  but  tactfully  disguised, 
assistance  the  other  succeeded  in  extracting  three 
or  four  letters,  which  he  immediately  dropped  on 
the  floor.  Laurence  picked  them  up  and  held  one 
to  the  oil-lamp  at  the  back  of  the  cab.  In  the 
flood  of  its  yellow  light  he  read  the  name :  Harvey 
Elwes,  Esq. 

He  was  not  completely  surprised.  The  possibil- 
ity had  occurred  to  him.  He  knew  Harvey's  pro- 
clivities and  he  knew  the  neighbourhood  to  be  his. 
But  he  was  distressed  and  deeply  indignant.  This 
was  Cynthia's  husband — this!  This  was  the  man 
who  broke  her  life.  The  thought  of  her  stirred 
him  strongly  to  lay  ungentle  hands  on  the  pitiful 

190 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

pulp  in  the  cab.    Since  shuffling  out  the  letters  he 
had  once  more  peacefully  collapsed  into  a  corner. 

Laurence  was  a  man  of  the  world.  He  knew  its 
temptations  and  its  follies.  He  had  come  through 
most  of  them  himself.  If  he  could  not  justify,  he 
could  find  excuses  for  a  man  who  lived  miserably 
and  who  turned  to  drink  for  temporary  oblivion; 
he  could  understand  one  whose  home  life  was 
merely  colourless  seeking  excitement  in  alcohol. 
But  the  conduct  of  Harvey  Elwes  staggered  him. 
It  was  beyond  his  comprehension  that  a  man  with 
such  a  woman  for  his  wife  could  deliberately  ob- 
literate the  blessing  granted  him  in  this  amazing 
piggery. 

He  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  few  seconds  and 
then  hunched  him  up  sufficiently  to  make  room  for 
himself  by  his  side.  He  gave  the  address  to  the 
cabman,  who  was  still  holding  up  the  trap. 

"I  shall  see  him  home,"  he  said:  "I  know  some- 
thing of  him." 

Harvey  had  permitted  himself  even  greater  ex- 
tension than  usual  and  was  almost  helpless.  Lower- 
ing him  from  the  cab  was  a  difficult  and  tedious 
process.  He  stumbled  on  the  steps  of  his  house 
and  would  have  fallen  but  for  Laurence's  support- 
ing arm.  The  latter  felt  in  his  pocket  without 
ceremony  and  extracted  his  latch-key. 

191 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

"Now,  be  quiet — do  you  hear?"  he  said  per- 
emptorily, as  he  inserted  it  noiselessly  in  the  lock. 

It  was  dark  in  the  hall.  Laurence  momentarily 
loosed  his  charge  to  feel  for  his  match-box.  Har- 
vey tripped  over  the  mat  and  lurched  heavily  upon 
a  picture  on  the  wall,  shivering  the  glass.  The 
loud  clatter  was  followed  by  complete  silence. 
Laurence  listened  intently,  biting  his  lip;  he  even 
resisted  the  temptation  to  crush  Harvey's  arm, 
fearful  of  making  him  cry  out.  Then  there  was  a. 
movement  upstairs,  and  a  light  from  above  pene- 
trated to  the  hall,  jumping  swiftly  from  wall  to 
wall.  By  degrees  it  grew  steadier  and  wider. 
Footsteps  were  coming  down,  and  there  was  a  light 
sweep  of  skirts  on  the  stairs.  At  last  the  beam 
became  stationary,  and  Cynthia  stood  at  the  head 
of  the  first  flight,  wrapped  in  a  white  dressing- 
gown,  the  light  from  a  candle  in  her  hand  shining^ 
up  into  her  face.  She  looked  down  at  the  two- 
figures  in  the  shadow,  and  then  calmly  descended 
the  remaining  steps  and  went  into  the  dining-room. 

"Will  you  bring  him  in  here,  please?"  she  said. 

The  undemonstrative  tone  struck  more  poign- 
antly to  Laurence's  heart  than  a  cry  of  distress 
would  have  done.  It  was  the  tone  of  the  drunk- 
ard's wife,  familiarised  to  such  scenes.  At  that 
moment  he  could  have  gratefully  throttled  the  life 
from  the  helpless  weight  of  flesh  he  was  support- 

192 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

ing.  He  steered  him  into  the  dining-room  and 
seated  him  on  the  couch.  Then  he  turned  round. 
Cynthia  had  switched  on  the  light. 

"Laurence!" 

It  was  not  a  cry.  It  was  a  breathless  undertone, 
intensely  charged  with  amazement,  with  conster- 
nation, with  deep,  uncontrollable  gladness. 

The  name  struck  a  worn  chord  in  the  memory 
of  the  drunken  man.  It  was  one  which  had  been 
sorely  on  his  mind  since  he  had  seen  it  at  the  bot- 
tom of  Cynthia's  letter. 

"What,"  he  drivelled,  "Laurence— fren'  o' 
mine — brought  him  home."  He  waggled  his  head 
from  one  to  the  other.  "Laurence — wife.  Fren' 

o'  mine.    Haf  drink — wacher  like O  lor' !" 

He  was  overcome  with  a  fit  of  nausea,  and  bowed 
his  head  into  his  hands,  retching  horribly. 

"Show  me  his  room,"  said  Laurence. 

Cynthia  led  the  way  without  speaking.  In  spite 
of  his  strenuous,  drunken  protests,  uttered  with 
absurdly  attempted  dignity,  Laurence  lifted  Har- 
vey in  his  arms  and  carried  him  bodily  up  the 
stairs.  He  took  him  into  the  room  which  Cynthia 
showed  him  and  then  quietly  bade  her  leave  them. 

"Go  back  to  your  room,"  he  said.  "I  will  look 
after  him." 

She  went  without  a  word,  and  he  closed  the 
door.  With  some  difficulty  he  managed  to  get 

193 


Harvey's  clothes  off  and  rolled  him  into  bed.  The 
latter  appeared  to  realise,  as  the  process  proceeded, 
that  something  was  being  done  for  him  in  the  way 
of  kindness,  and  his  indignation  at  being  carried 
upstairs  gradually  gave  way  to  maudlin  gratitude. 
Then  some  fancied  indignity  produced  a  recrudes- 
cence of  contumacy  and  pugnaciousness  and  he 
struggled  ferociously  against  Laurence's  ministra- 
tions. It  took  half  an  hour  to  get  him  into  bed. 
Cheyne  waited  to  see  that  he  was  disposed  to  be 
quiet,  and  then  extinguished  the  light  and  opened 
the  door. 

Cynthia  was  still  standing  on  the  landing,  her 
hands  pressed  to  her  bosom.  She  had  not  stirred 
during  the  half-hour. 

There  was  a  second's  pause  while  they  faced  one 
another.  Then  Cynthia  mutely  stretched  out  her 
hands  to  him. 


194 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AT  five  o'clock  on  the  following  morning 
Cynthia  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  bending 
sideways  to  use  it  as  a  rest  for  a  writing-pad,  while 
she  took  pencil-notes  of  train  times  which  Laurence 
read  out  from  a  Railway  Guide.  He  was  seated 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed,  the  time-table  in 
one  hand,  the  other  grasping  an  ankle  crossed  upon 
his  knee.  They  were  both  partly  dressed. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  manage  that?"  he  asked. 

"Two-twenty?    Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Cynthia. 

"You  must  have  with  you  everything  of  your 
own  that  you  value." 

"Yes." 

"Put  the  things  you  won't  immediately  want 
into  separate  cases.  We  will  store  them  at 
Boulogne." 

"Yes,"  said  Cynthia,  again.  "I  can  begin  pack- 
ing at  ten,"  she  added.  "I  think  there  will  be 
time." 

"Better  get  in  a  man  to  pack  the  knick-knacks," 
said  Laurence.  "He  will  do  it  better  than  you 

195 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

and  it  will  save  time.  If  you  don't  reach  Charing 
Cross  before  the  train  leaves,  I  shall  stay  there 
until  you  come,  whenever  it  may  be." 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  be  in  time,"  said  Cynthia; 
"unless — unless  something " 

"Send  me  a  wire  to  the  hotel,  in  that  case,  and 
we  will  make  new  arrangements.  Better  to  get 
away  without  a  row,  if  possible,  because  of  Eric. 
You  could  legally  be  forced  to  leave  him  behind." 

"I  thought  I  would  ask  Bay  to  take  him,"  she 
said,  "till — till  we  are  settled  somewhere." 

"It  will  be  far  safer  to  take  him  out  of  the  coun- 
try at  once.  These  incredible  brutes,  if  they  get  a 
ghost  of  a  chance,  will  separate  mother  and  child. 
He  will  not  be  much  trouble  to  you.  You  can  get 
a  nurse  for  him  in  Boulogne,  or,  at  any  rate,  in 
Paris." 

Cynthia  leaned  across  the  bed  and  took  his  hand, 
holding  it  in  both  her  own.  "It  is  not  the  trouble 
I  am  thinking  of,"  she  said,  "the  trouble  to  me,  I 
mean.  Of  course  I  should  gladly  undertake  that. 
But  why  should  you  be  burdened  with  a  child,  you 
poor  dear,  on  our — our  honeymoon?" 

"Burdened!"  said  Laurence,  smiling.  "Eric  and 
I  were  old  pals  when  you  were  still  a  stranger.  If 
his  mother  refused  to  come,  too,  I  wouldn't  prom- 
ise not  to  kidnap  him." 

Cynthia  laughed.     Then  she  came  closer.     "I 
196 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Relieve,"  she  whispered,  "I  believe  it  is  going  to 
be  all— all  Eden." 

She  stretched  to  him,  and  he  took  her  in  his 
arms,  his  lips  on  hers. 

Suddenly  she  started  to  an  upright  posture. 

"Listen!"  she  said. 

A  board  had  creaked  outside  the  door.  It  was 
followed  by  a  faint  shuffling,  and  then  by  the  sound 
of  footsteps  descending  the  stairs,  quietly, 
stealthily. 

"A  servant,"  said  Laurence.  He  looked  at  the 
clock.  "It  is  after  five.  I  ought  to  have  gone 
before." 

"It  is  not  a  servant,"  said  Cynthia,  quietly. 
^There  are  no  skirts,  the  step  is  too  heavy,  and  I 
know  it." 

Laurence  looked  at  her. 

"Harvey,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  momentary  pause.  "Oh,  prepos- 
terous!" said  Laurence.  "No  man  could  do  it. 
He  was  helpless  four  hours  ago." 

"Harvey  does  it  invariably,"  said  Cynthia.  "He 
is  always  recovered  by  the  morning.  It  is  he, 
Laurence." 

"But  why  has  he  gone  downstairs?" 

"I  don't  know;  unless  to  get  assistance.  He 
would  be  capable  of  it." 

"It  will  mean  a  row,  I  am  afraid,"  said 
197 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Laurence,  "and  trouble  about  Eric.  I  think  you 
had  better  stay  here  and  let  me  go  down  and  see 
him  first." 

"No,  no."  Cynthia  clung  to  him.  They  had 
both  stood  up.  "I  won't  be  left  without  you  now. 
Besides,  he  may  not  have  heard  us  at  all;  he  may 
only  have  gone  down  for  brandy." 

While  she  spoke,  the  footsteps  again  creaked  on 
the  stairs,  this  time  ascending.  The  gradual,  steady 
approach  struck  Cynthia  with  a  sudden  panic  for 
Laurence's  sake.  She  fancied  Harvey,  murder- 
ously jealous,  with  a  loaded  firearm  in  his  hand. 
She  dragged  back  the  curtains  from  a  recess  where 
she  hung  some  of  her  dresses. 

"Come  in  here,"  she  said  urgently.  "He  may 
open  the  door  incidentally — just  to  look  at  me — he 
sometimes  does.  For  my  sake — for  my  sake,"  she 
entreated. 

Laurence  smiled  reassuringly.  "You  don't  mean 
that,"  he  said.  "You  have  not  thought.  What- 
ever is  bringing  him  here,  he  must  be  faced.  If  he 
wants  to  have  a  knock  at  me,  I  shall  not  grudge 
it  him." 

"But  his  malice  is  capable  of  anything,"  urged 
Cynthia.  She  was  trembling.  "He  has  no  control." 

"No  need  to  be  nervous,  sweetheart."  Laurence 
took  her  hand.  "I  will  see  that  he  is  not  allowed 
to  be  too  reckless.  But  one  can  forgive  him  some 

198 


CYNTHIA  IN  *THE  WILDERNESS 

passion.    Really,  I  can't*  help  being  sorry  for  him : 
he  is  losing  such  a  world." 

"It  has  never  been  his,"  said  Cynthia,  clinging 
to  his  arm,  speaking  with  a  little,  tremulous  laugh- 
ter. "He  doesn't  know  the  use  of  worlds." 

The  last  word  was  one  of  those  which  she  al- 
ways intoned  with  peculiar  sweetness.  Before  it 
had  left  her  lips — vibrating  slightly  with  the 
happy,  nervous  laughter — the  door  had  been  flung 
open.  Harvey  heard  it;  Harvey  saw  her  holding 
tight  to  Laurence's  shirt-sleeved  arm,  looking  up 
into  his  face,  while  she  gave  it  voice. 

There  was  an  odd  mixture  of  dissoluteness  and 
gravity  in  his  appearance.  Still  showing  slight 
traces  of  the  previous  night's  excesses,  and  plainly 
charged  to  the  point  of  explosion  with  a  sense  of 
outrage,  he  had  evidently  promised  himself  to 
meet  the  situation  he  expected  to  find  with  calm, 
judicial  dignity.  Nevertheless,  he  had  not  con- 
sidered it  advisable  to  come  unarmed.  In  his  right 
hand  he  was  grasping  a  golf-club,  a  heavy  alumi- 
num putter. 

He  stopped  inside  the  door. 

"I've  caught  you!"  he  said  in  his  quick  tones, 
breathing  fast.  "I  thought  something  was  going 
on.  I've  caught  you  red-handed."  He  moved  a 
step  nearer  them.  "Leave  that  man,  Cynthia.  Sit 
down.  You  and  I  must  have  some  conversation. 

199 


CYNTHU  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

As  for  you" — he  looked  at  Laurence  and  moved 
aside  from  the  open  door  with  a  gesture  of  con- 
tempt— "kindly  go.  I  shall  deal  with  you  later." 

Laurence  took  in  the  spectacle  of  this  astonish- 
ing little  man  with  a  feeling  verging  upon  adraira- 
ation.  Consistently  careless  of  his  wife's  interest 
where  it  conflicted  with  his  own,  prodigal  of  his 
little  infidelities,  hopelessly  incapable,  a  few  hours 
before,  of  walking  upstairs,  he  was  now  pluming, 
strutting,  playing  the  injured  husband,  not  only 
with  amazing  versimilitude,  but  with  obviously 
genuine  belief  in  his  qualification. 

"Put  down  that  ridiculous  club,  Harvey,"  said 
Cynthia.  She  loosed  Laurence's  arm,  but  did  not 
leave  his  side,  "You  have  not  come  to  look  for 
burglars." 

''No,  I  have  come  to  look  for  a  serpent,"  said 
Harvey,  with  white  solemnity. 

"A  serpent  who  carried  you  up  to  bed  last  night 
when  you  were  not  in  a  condition  to  walk.  Please 
don't  talk  in  absurd  heroics.  You  arc  very  foolish 
to  come  here  and  force  a  scene,  knowing  your  rec- 
ord. I  have  not  told  you  once  during  our  married 
life  what  your  own  actions  have  driven  me  to  think 
of  you,  but  I  will  do  so  now.  Virtually,  from  the 
beginning,  you  have  cast  upon  me  the  indignity  of 
nominal  wifehood;  the  feeble  instinct,  which  you 
consider  virtue,  has  been  deliberately  provoked, 

200 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  fTILDERXESS 

whenever  it  suited  you,  to  carry  you  gratuitously 
into  squalid  infidelities ;  you  have  acquired  the  habit 
of  drink  without  predisposition,  and  indulged  it 
without  one  thought  of  me  or  the  degradation  it 
put  upon  me ;  the  word  'control'  is  not  in  your  dic- 
tionary. I  don't  hate  you :  you  are  not  big  enough 
to  hate.  I  hardly  despise  you :  you  are  too  pitiable 
to  despise.  But  I  am  no  longer  your  wife." 

Harvey  listened  to  her,  aghast,  incredulous — his 
mouth  slightly  open.  Never,  never  had  anything 
approaching  such  a  view  of  himself  been  presented 
to  him  by  anyone ;  not  his  wildest  nightmare  could 
have  put  it  into  Cynthia's  mouth.  Cynthia's !  Some 
change,  he  knew,  had  taken  place  in  her — some 
cloud,  he  knew,  had  come  between  them  of  late — 
but  nothing  to  prepare  him  for  this  astounding 
volte-face.  His  perusal  of  her  letter  had  shown 
him  that  she  had  fallen  under  pernicious  influences 
in  Scotland.  He  looked  upon  that  as  the  result  of 
a  few  weeks'  exclusion  from  his  protection  and 
counsel,  for  which  he  blamed  himself.  Not  for 
one  moment  had  it  occurred  to  him  that  she  could 
put  forward  a  claim  of  provocative  conduct  on  his 
part.  At  the  first  lash  of  her  words  he  was  affected 
to  acute  self-pity  by  the  thought  that  she  could  so 
misjudge  him,  prove  capable  of  such  depth  of  in- 
gratitude. After  all  his  thought,  all  his  unremit- 
ting care,  all  his  constant,  tender  solicitude!  For 

201 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

one  or  two  moments  he  hovered  on  the  verge  of 
tears.  Before  she  had  come  to  an  end,  however, 
another  feeling  had  got  hold  of  him :  the  fierce  feel- 
ing of  resentment  of  the  unjustly  maligned,  coupled 
with  a  gloating  consciousness  of  power  to  make  it 
felt. 

"You  can't  help  it,"  he  cried,  almost  with  glee. 
"You  have  to  be." 

"I  intend  to  help  it,"  said  Cynthia.  "I  have  not 
been  your  wife  in  fact  since  you  insulted  me  in  the 
spring.  For  the  future  I  shall  not  be  your  wife 
even  in  semblance." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  He  pressed  a  little  for- 
ward, sudden  fright  in  his  tone. 

"That  I  am  going  to  leave  you  for  ever." 

"What!" 

Harvey  almost  jumped.  In  spite  of  his  fierce 
jealousy  and  the  blow  to  his  pride,  he  had  found 
almost  an  element  of  enjoyment  in  the  role  of 
injured  and  magnanimous  husband;  it  produced  a 
feeling  of  superiority.  He  had  privately  intended 
to  punish  his  erring  wife  by  excluding  her  for  a 
time  from  his  society;  and  then,  when  the  period 
of  isolation  had  lasted  sufficiently  long  to  induce 
penitence  and  a  return  of  true  perceptions,  to  allow 
himself  to  be  persuaded  to  restore  her  to  the  light 
of  his  countenance.  But  this  declaration  of  hers 
was  a  deadening  blow,  utterly  unlooked-for,  which 

202 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

went  intensely  home :  for  it  carried  with  it,  besides 
the  detraction  of  personal  prestige  and  of  the  social 
respectability  which  was  so  dear  to  him,  the  loss 
of  the  only  woman  in  the  world  he  had  ever  cared 
for,  or  could  care  for. 

"You  can't !"  he  shrieked. 

Cynthia  made  no  reply. 

He  stepped  close  up  to  her,  passion  breaking  out 
of  him.  "Why  don't  you  answer  ?  Why  don't  you 
speak?  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  let  you  go 
away  and  make  me  look  a  fool?" 

He  caught  her  furiously  by  her  bare  arm  above 
the  elbow  and  would  have  violently  wrenched  her. 
But  an  iron  hand  came  down  like  a  thunderbolt, 
a  grip  of  steel  fell  on  his  wrist.  He  yapped  with 
pain  and  released  his  wife,  leaving  the  marks  of 
his  fingers  on  the  white  flesh,  and,  livid  with  pas- 
sion, turned  upon  Laurence,  who  again  stood  mo- 
tionless. With  all  his  force  he  brought  the  heavy 
club  down  upon  his  head.  It  struck  with  a  sicken- 
ing thud,  and  Laurence  fell  like  a  log. 

The  next  moment  Harvey  stood  pale  and  trem- 
bling with  terror  at  his  own  work. 

"Lord,  what  have  I  done?"  he  cried.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  hit  him  so  hard.  I  swear  I  didn't.  I 
swrear  I  didn't,  Cynthia." 

With  a  cry  of  exquisite  anguish,  Cynthia  had 
dropped  upon  Laurence  almost  in  the  same  instant 

203 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

that  he  fell  himself.  She  tore  open  his  shirt  and 
pressed  her  ear  upon  his  heart;  she  lifted  his  hands, 
one  after  the  other,  and  held  them  tight  to  her 
bosom;  she  spread  herself  upon  him  and  hungrily 
kissed  his  neck,  his  lips,  his  cheek,  his  eyes;  she 
raised  his  head  with  infinite  tenderness  and  laid  it 
upon  her  lap. 

Harvey  stood  and  watched  her,  daring  neither 
to  approach  nor  to  recede. 

She  looked  up  at  last,  her  arms  still  about 
Laurence.  The  scorn  in  her  eyes  burned  through 
every  nerve  of  his  trembling  body. 

But  her  words  came  with  frozen  calm:  "Fetch 
a  doctor.  And  if  you  have  any  care  for  your  skin, 
go  quickly.  For  if  he  dies" — she  pressed  her  cheek 
to  Laurence's  lips — "if  he  dies — you — you  swing." 


204 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  ingenious  reader,  versed  in  the  art  of  put- 
ting two  and  two  together,  will  have  gathered  that 
the  world  to  which  Bay  would  come  back,  on  her 
return  from  Scotland,  was  one  which  had  lost  its 
savour.  By  that  time  her  pretty  flat  had  relapsed 
a  little  from  its  summer  freshness,  had  gleaned 
again  some  of  the  inevitable  London  grime.  She 
was  not  displeased  to  find  it  so ;  it  agreed  with  her 
outlook.  A  bright  and  gay  environment  would 
have  seemed  a  mockery.  She  felt  herself,  for  the 
future,  grey,  dull,  flat,  receded  from  freshness, 
gathering  grime. 

She  had  once  said  to  Cynthia  that  a  young 
widow  either  must  re-marry  or  she  must  die.  She1 
had  been  quite  serious,  and  she  still  thought  It.  But 
it  did  not  seem  to  her  now,  as  it  had  seemed  then, 
that  she  would  be  likely  to  re-marry.  There  is  a 
saying  about  fish  in  the  sea.  It  appeared  to  Bay, 
as  she  sat  in  her  lonely  evenings  in  her  lonely 
drawing-room,  an  open  book  on  her  lap,  looking 
into  her  fire,  that,  of  all  absurd  doctrines,  the  doc- 

205 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

trine  it  embodied  was  the  most  so.  Its  force  might 
have  been  apparent,  she  thought,  had  it  chanced 
that  she  had  been  born  a  cat,  or  a  sheep,  or  even 
a  man.  That  mysterious  demand  which  has  in- 
spired most  of  the  world's  greatest  poets  and  many 
of  its  greatest  painters  and  musicians,  which  has 
formed  the  theme  of  almost  every  work  of  fiction 
which  has  ever  been  penned,  which  meets  us  at 
every  turn  of  our  daily  life,  which  is  evident  in 
every  newspaper,  every  ladies'  journal,  every  book- 
seller's, print-seller's,  song-seller's  window,  which 
we  call  love,  which  we  call  emotion,  which  we  call 
anything  that  will  serve  to  hide  what  appears  to 
us  its  fundamental  impropriety,  but  which, 
whether  we  care  to  recognise  it  or  not,  is  essentially 
rooted  in  physical  desire — that  demand  can  reach 
an  intensity  in  woman  perhaps  inappreciable  by 
man,  but  it  is  directed  in  one  current  upon  a  par- 
ticular object,  it  is  recognisable  only  in  relation  to 
a  single  individual.  The  comprehensive  inclination 
of  the  male  towards  the  feminine  world  is  rarely 
matched  by  corresponding  Catholicism  in  the  other 
sex.  For  a  man  a  woman,  for  a  woman  the  man. 
Bay  had  suffered  in  Scotland  perhaps  more  than 
she  had  supposed  she  had  capacity  within  her  to 
suffer.  Until  she  had  changed  her  room  she  had 
endured  a  degree  of  mental  and  physical  torture 
which  had  left  her  sane  almost  to  her  surprise.  She 
206 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

ached  to  receive,  but  the  rack  had  been  strung  to 
the  tightest  by  the  knowledge  that  another  was 
giving — giving  what  every  fibre  of  her  being 
yearned,  above  all  else,  to  give.  Looking  back  out 
of  the  grey  days  in  London,  she  was  conscious  of 
a  duller,  deeper  hurt :  that,  come  what  might,  what- 
ever changes  in  the  wheel  of  fortune,  she  could 
never  give  as  Cynthia  had  given,  as  Cynthia,  while 
she  lived,  could  always  give.  Even  the  possibility 
of  conferring  the  utmost  had  been  removed  from 
her.  That  was  a  loss  which  no  one  could  make 
good  to  her,  not  even  Cynthia  herself. 

Laurence  had  been  to  see  her  during  his  stay  in 
town,  had  brought  her  a  handsome  jewelled  bangle 
as  a  souvenir  of  the  Tannadice  visit  and  of  her 
office  of  hostess — a  present  from  Frank  and  him- 
self. For  several  days  after  his  visit  it  had  lain 
unviewed  in  a  cabinet  in  the  drawing-room.  Then 
one  afternoon  she  yielded  to  herself  and  took  out 
the  case  to  look  at  it  again.  It  was  very  pretty  and 
must  have  cost  a  considerable  sum.  Her  office  of 
hostess !  Had  it  been  a  souvenir  of  a  tenderer  tie, 
she  would  have  flung  it  back  in  his  face,  but  she 
would  have  kissed  his  footprints  when  he  had  gone. 
Had  it  been  an  offering  to  pave  the  way  to  her 
grace,  she  would  have  crushed  it  under  her  feet, 
but  she  would  have  thrown  her  arms  round  his 
neck. 

207 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Presently  she  drew  up  the  sleeve  of  her  dress 
and  snapped  the  bangle  on  her  arm.  She  had  a 
pretty  arm,  with  a  slender  wrist,  and  the  sparkling 
circlet  looked  well  upon  it.  A  woman's  skin  is 
the  one  supreme  background  for  diamonds.  They 
are  lost  on  the  stuff  of  a  dress — such  a  setting  de- 
grades them.  If  you  have  reached  the  age,  which 
we  all  must  reach,  when  decollete  gowns  have  be- 
come no  longer  seemly  nor  advantageous,  face  the 
fact  soberly,  cease  to  deck  yourself  with  wasted, 
foolish  finery,  give  your  diamonds  to  your  daughter 
or  your  niece,  to  your  nearest  female  relative  with 
a  skin  to  justify  them,  to  some  one  of  the  thousands 
of  women  who  possess  the  background  in  perfec- 
tion, but  have  no  diamonds. 

Bay  possessed  the  background  in  perfection.  It 
passed  through  her  mind  as  she  looked  at  the 
bangle — it  had  passed  through  her  mind  before — 
that  Laurence  did  not  know  that.  Perhaps — oh, 
much  more  than  perhaps ! — he  would  never  know 
it.  He  would  go  down  to  the  grave,  and  she  would 
go  down  to  the  grave,  and  he  would  not  know  it. 
Her  face — her  face  which  was  the  least  beautiful 
part  of  her — was  the  only  impression  he  would 
ever  have  of  her.  He  had  not  even  offered  to  put 
the  bangle  on  her  arm.  Had  it  been  Cynthia's 
arm,  would  he  have  put  it  on?  Had  he  ever — O 
God,  Cynthia  did  not  have  to  be  gauged  by  her 
208 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

face  alone,  and  her  face  was  beautiful !  The  odds 
were  outrageously  unfair.  She  snapped  off  the 
bangle  with  an  impatient  cry  beneath  her  breath. 
Almost  at  the  same  moment  the  door  was  opened. 

"Mrs.  Elwes,"  said  the  maid. 

Cynthia  walked  into  the  room  more  quickly  than 
was  her  wont,  clad  in  furs.  Bay  threw  the  bangle 
on  its  case  and  got  up. 

"Oh,  I  have  been  thinking  such  hard  things  of 
you,"  she  said. 

"That  is  the  worst  of  news  just  now,"  said 
Cynthia.  "Why?" 

"For  one  thing,  because  you  have  not  been  to 
see  me  for  so  long." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  have  very  good  reason 
to  complain  of  me  for  the  opposite  reason  for  a 
while,"  said  Cynthia.  She  put  up  her  veil  and 
inclined  her  face  to  be  kissed,  perfectly  naturally 
and  spontaneously,  and  yet  with  something  in  the 
action  which  informed  the  recipient  that  she  was 
receiving  a  favour  not  indiscriminately  conferred. 
"Before  I  talk,  may  Eric  and  his  nurse  come  up? — 
they  arc  in  the  cab — and  all  our  luggage,  every- 
thing we  have  in  the  world." 

A  request  laden  with  such  sensational  suggestion 
would  have  provoked  many  women  to  bombard 
her  immediately  with  questions.  Bay  was  not  con- 
stituted in  that  way.  Without  a  word  she  left  the 

209 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

room  and  gave  the  necessary  orders.  It  was  suffi- 
ciently apparent  to  her  that  a  crisis  in  Cynthia's 
affairs  had  been  reached,  but  for  the  moment  her 
practical  assistance  was  obviously  of  superior  im- 
portance to  her  sympathy  or  advice.  When  every- 
thing had  been  settled,  and  Eric  and  the  nurse  duly 
installed  in  an  improvised  nursery,  she  gave  notice 
to  her  maid  that  she  was  invisible  for  the  remainder 
of  the  afternoon  and  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Cynthia,  who  had  removed  her  outer 
things,  had  returned  there  also  and  was  standing 
by  the  fire. 

"What  a  dear,  generous,  unselfish  being  you 
are !"  she  said,  with  a  rush  of  feeling.  "I  believe 
you  have  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world.  I  wonder 
who  else  would  have  accepted  a  sudden  incursion 
of  three  able-bodied  people  with  so  little  fuss?" 

"You  wouldn't  wonder,"  said  Bay,  "if  you  had 
tried  solitary  confinement  for  nearly  three  years." 

Cynthia  sat  down.  "It  has  sometimes  struck  me 
as  rather  paradoxical,"  she  said,  "that  I,  who  never 
really  had  a  husband,  should  have  a  child;  while 
you,  who  had  a  husband  for  several  years  of  your 
life,  have  none." 

"The  luck  equalises  itself,"  said  Bay,  calmly. 
"We  are  not  allowed  to  have  it  every  way.   Provi- 
dence compensates  vapid  marriages  and  puts  a  pen- 
alty on  too  much  happiness." 
210 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"It  is  fairer  so,"  said  Cynthia.  "Life  for  me 
would  not  have  been  bearable  but  for  Eric.  Now, 
more  than  ever,  it  would  not  be  bearable." 

Bay  pulled  her  chair  to  the  fire  and  put  her  toes 
on  the  fender,  slightly  drawing  up  her  skirts. 
"What  has  happened?"  she  said. 

Cynthia  turned  her  face  to  her:  "Laurence  is 
in  a  hospital  in  Anne  Street — a  nursing  home — 
alive,  but  no  more." 

"Laurence !"  Bay  uttered  the  name  slowly,  al- 
most under  her  breath.  The  intelligence  took  her 
completely  at  a  disadvantage.  She  had  been  ex- 
pecting to  hear  of  some  last  insufferable  outrage 
perpetrated  by  Harvey,  of  a  quarrel,  perhaps,  and 
a  breach.  She  became  white,  almost  haggard. 
Then,  suddenly,  her  eyes  lighted  and  her  cheeks 
burned.  "Through  you?"  she  flashed. 

Cynthia  was  startled  by  her  vehemence,  a  little 
distressed,  but  she  did  not  flinch.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
"through  me  indirectly;  directly  through  Harvey." 

Bay  flung  fierce  contempt  at  the  name.  "He! 
That  flabby,  pulseless  thing !  How  could  he  ?" 

"He  did,"  said  Cynthia,  quietly. 

"By  some  low,  vile,  underhand  means?" 

"Yes,"  said  Cynthia,  "by  low,  vile,  underhand 
means :  by  a  blow  in  the  dark,  a  blow  when  Lau- 
rence was  unprepared,  without  warning,  a  blow 
with  a  murderous  instrument  with  a  leaden  head.' 

211 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Ohl"  cried  Bay,  springing  up  in  a  blaze  of 
indignant  wrath,  "that  such  vermin  should  live  1" 

"And  that  such  men  should  die !"  said  Cynthia. 
"Oh,  no,  no,  no!"  she  called  out,  startled  by  her 
own  expression  of  a  heavy  fear,  "that  could  never 
be — surely — never — never !" 

The  poignant  distress  in  her  voice  and  in  her 
face  did  not  touch  Bay.  She  could  not  feel  for 
her  yet.  Indeed,  for  a  while  she  came  near  to 
hating  her.  She  had  forgiven  her  for  loving 
Laurence,  for  obtaining  his  love,  for  all  the  injury 
she  had  unconsciously  done  her;  but  if  she  had 
brought  him  to  death  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
could  never  forgive  her. 

"You  are  miserable  now,"  she  said  impatiently; 
"but  why  did  you  do  it — why — why — why?" 
Every  repetition  of  the  little  word  came  out  with 
more  strenuous  emphasis. 

Cynthia  turned  her  eyes  upon  her  with  quiet 
surprise.  "Why  did  I  do  what?"  she  said. 

"You  knew  your  husband's  mean  passions  and 
his  cowardly  code.  Why  did  you  expose  Laurence 
to  them  ?  Was  that  all  your  love  was  worth  ? — to 
lure  him,  for  your  own  selfish  satisfaction,  to  the 
house  of  a  man  capable  of  anything  but  of  facing 
him  squarely  and  openly?" 

For  several  seconds  Cynthia  restrained  herself 
from  replying.  Nothing  arouses  our  passions  so 

212 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

potently  as  a  bitter  attack  which  we  know  to  be 
undeserved ;  and  there  is  a  double  hurt  in  stinging 
taunts  when  they  issue  from  a  source  to  which  we 
have  come  in  the  sure  expectation  of  obtaining 
sympathy  and  support.  Deep  within  her  Cynthia 
had  strong  and  fierce  passions,  but  they  were  under 
her  control  in  proportion  to  their  depth,  and  were 
rarely  permitted  to  break  into  flame.  Her  sense 
of  injury  stirred  her  powerfully  to  flash  back  upon 
Bay  a  vivid  and  indignant  retort;  but  she  was  con- 
scious, even  while  the  temptation  was  upon  her, 
that  the  latter  had  spoken  hastily,  moved  by  affec- 
tion for  her  cousin,  whose  injury  would  undoubt- 
edly not  have  befallen  but  for  his  association  with 
herself. 

"You  are  very  unjust,"  she  said,  quite  quietly,  at 
length.  "If  anyone  else  had  spoken  in  that  way 
I  wouldn't  have  stooped  to  explain;  I  wouldn't 
have  allowed  them  to  put  me  on  my  defence.  But 
I  don't  want  you  to  think  worse  of  me  than  I  de- 
serve; your  good  opinion  is  one  of  the  very  few 
in  the  world  which  it  would  make  me  really  un- 
happy to  lose.  I  did  not  lure  Laurence  to  the 
house.  On  the  contrary,  he  came  against  my  ex- 
press desire,  against  my  earnest  entreaty." 

Bay  was  quickly  contrite.  No  other  cause  could 
have  made  her  speak  harshly  to  Cynthia. 

She  dropped  into  a  chair  beside  her,  snatched 
213 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

her  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  her  bosom.  "Forgive 
me,  dearest.  I  love  you  too  much  to  misjudge  you 
when  I'm  sane.  There  are  some  things  you  don't 
know — which  I  don't  want  you  to  know — but  you 
would  understand  me  better  if  you  did.  Tell  me 
everything  that  happened  since — since  the  night  at 
Tannadice  when  you  spoilt  my  sleep." 

Cynthia  had  been  chary  since  that  night  of  mak- 
ing a  confidante  even  of  Bay.  In  the  exultation 
of  her  joy,  through  the  intervention  of  an  imme- 
diate opportunity,  she  had  opened  her  heart  to  her 
then  for  the  first  and  only  time.  But  she  related 
everything  now:  her  last  conversation  with  Lau- 
rence on  the  moor;  Harvey's  conduct  since  her 
return ;  the  incident  of  the  letter ;  the  circumstances 
of  Laurence's  visit;  the  final  scene. 

"The  doctor  did  not  say  very  much,"  she  con- 
cluded. "Probably  he  was  a  good  deal  mystified, 
poor  man.  Harvey  told  him  shivering,  transpar- 
ent lies  to  explain  the  cause.  He  talked  obscurely 
about  not  being  able  to  discover  the  extent  of  the 
injury  without  a  more  detailed  examination.  But 
he  evidently  thought  it  almost  as  bad  as  it  could 
be.  As  soon  as  he  learnt  that  Laurence  was  only 
visiting  London,  he  was  anxious  to  get  him  re- 
moved at  once  to  a  private  hospital.  He  was  not 
more  anxious  than  I.  I  went  with  him  to  the  hos- 
pital with  Laurence,  and  then  I  came  back  and 
214 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

fetched  Eric.    Never,  never  will  I  go  inside  that 
house  again." 

For  a  long  time  Bay  sat  without  speaking,  lean- 
ing forward,  her  chin  on  her  hands,  staring  intently 
into  the  fire. 

"Where  is  he  now  ?"  she  said  at  last. 

"Harvey?" 

Bay  nodded  without  changing  her  attitude.  Her 
mouth  was  firmly  closed. 

"Still  in  the  house,"  said  Cynthia,  "and  hardly 
likely  to  leave  it  for  the  present,  I  think.  He  fan- 
cies every  policeman  he  sees  is  coming  to  arrest 
him." 

"He  has  no  right  to  be  free.  Why  didn't  you 
give  him  in  charge?" 

Cynthia  turned  her  face  and  gazed  at  her. 
"What,  Bay?"  she  said,  with  quiet  astonishment. 

"No,  of  course  you  couldn't." 

"But  even  if  it  had  not  meant  any  public  prying 
into  my  affairs  I  could  not  have  handed  him  over 
to  the  police.  Much  as  I  loathe  him,  I  could  not 
have  done  that." 

"But  if  Laurence — dies?"  She  spoke  rigidly, 
her  breath  tight,  her  features  set. 

"He  can't — I  won't  let  him,"  cried  Cynthia, 
poignantly.  "Don't  talk  in  that  cold,  horrible  way. 
It's  unthinkable,  impossible,  unbearable !" 

"If  Laurence  dies?"  repeated  Bay,  steadily. 
215 


"It  would  have  to  come  out,"  said  Cynthia,  for- 
cing herself  to  face  the  thought.  "No  doubt  it 
could  not  be  avoided.  Harvey " 

"Would  have  to  be  arrested — would  have  to  be 
tried — would  have  to  be  hanged?" 

"If  Laurence  dies,  I  should  not  think  it  unjust, 
I  could  not  think  it  unjust — even  that."  Cynthia 
spoke  slowly,  looking  in  front  of  her,  her  eyes  mo- 
tionless. "But  I  should  not  like  Harvey  to  die  in 
that  way." 

"You  are  a  sentimental  fool,"  cried  Bay,  turning 
upon  her  with  sudden  fierceness.  "I  hate  inflicted 
pain,  I  hate  bloodshed  and  cruelty  and  killing.  I 
think  the  civilised  world  is  half  barbarous  still.  I 
don't  believe  we  are  justified  in  killing  harmless 
creatures  even  for  our  sustenance.  But  there  are 
certain  animals,  human  and  other,  which  have  no 
right  to  live,  which  are  not  only  useless,  but  vitiate 
the  air  and  are  noxious  and  dangerous  to  their  fel- 
lows. If  I  saw  a  snake  I  should  kill  it  if  I  could; 
but  nothing  would  make  me  kill  a  pigeon,  though 
I  were  starving.  What  single  baseness,  vileness, 
meanness  has  your  husband  shown  himself  inca- 
pable of  that  for  him  any  death  could  be  too 
ignominious?" 

"It  would  be  dreadful  beyond  words,"  said 
Cynthia. 

216 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"But  what,"  Bay  persisted — "what  extenuating 
claim  can  you  put  forward  for  him?" 

"I  cannot  say  what,"  Cynthia  replied  slowly. 
"I  don't  think  he  has  ever,  all  through  his  life> 
done  anything  to  benefit  a  fellow-creature." 

A  little  later  she  went  to  her  room  to  lie  down, 
worn  out  by  the  strenuous,  tragic  day. 

But  Bay  still  sat  thinking  over,  the  fire. 


217 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"Or  course,  they  have  operated,"  said  Bay. 

She  was  sitting  beside  Frank  Cheyne  in  a  han- 
som, returning  from  a  visit  to  the  hospital. 

"A  doctor,"  she  proceeded,  after  a  short  pause, 
"is  a  man  who  comes  into  a  house  with  a  purr  in 
his  voice  and  a  knife  in  his  sleeve;  and  you  are 
uncommonly  lucky  if  you  can  get  him  out  without 
having  the  knife  driven  into  you.  With  some  of 
them  it  is  almost  a  mania;  they  are  drunk  for 
blood.  I  know  that  to  my  cost,"  she  added,  with 
a  shudder.  "I  have  felt  their  hideous  knives,  and 
sometimes  I  dream  of  them." 

"They  told  me  it  was  the  only  chance,"  said 
Frank  Cheyne. 

"They  always  do,"  said  Bay.  "They  operate 
experimentally,  for  diagnosis,  even  to  satisfy  their 
scientific  curiosity.  They  won't  try  other  methods ; 
they  know  none ;  they  won't  study  them ;  they  are 
up-to-date.  Every  healing  property  and  power  is 
subordinated  to  surgery,  almost  obliterated  by  it. 
The  thinnest  excuse  is  sufficient  for  their  own  con- 

218 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

sciences,  and  the  relatives  are  frightened  into  ac- 
quiescence." 

"Do  you  mean  you  think  I  ought  not  to  have 
agreed?"  said  Frank. 

"No;  you  were  bound  to  agree.  There  is  the 
hideous  subtlety  of  it.  It  is  offered  to  you  as  the 
one  chance  of  life;  and,  as  it  is  not  your  own  life, 
you  daren't  take  the  responsibility  of  refusing. 
There  is  just  a  possibility  that  it  may  be  the  only 
chance;  the  only  one,  at  any  rate,  which  has  not 
been  lost  in  the  modern  passion  for  surgery." 

Laurence  had  now  been  in  the  hospital  four  days 
and  had  not  yet  recovered  consciousness.  The  long 
periods  of  heavy  lethargy,  in  which  for  the  most 
part  he  lay,  were  less  distressing  to  those  who 
watched  him  than  his  intervening  fits  of  violent 
delirium.  He  would  suddenly  conceive  intense 
antagonism  to  particular  people  about  him,  imag- 
ining a  sinister  design  in  their  presence  or  ministra- 
tions, and  would  struggle  to  get  at  them  with  fren- 
zied force  which  needed  the  utmost  efforts  of  the 
male  nurses  to  restrain.  On  the  second  morning, 
Cynthia  and  Bay,  moving  quietly  about  his  bed, 
had  been  transformed  by  his  distraught  mind  into 
vampires  seeking  his  blood.  Starting  up  in  bed, 
he  had  swept  them  from  him,  driving  them  trem- 
bling into  a  corner,  with  curses  and  imprecations, 
doubly  terrible  to  hear  from  lips  which,  in  sanity, 

219 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

were  never  intemperate  in  speech.  That  day  Cyn- 
thia had  cried  bitterly  in  the  cab  on  the  way  home, 
and  Bay,  sitting  by  her  side,  listening  to  her  sobs, 
had  looked  silently  out  at  the  foggy  street,  with 
compressed  lips  and  steady  eyes.  All  the  after- 
noon and  evening  Cynthia  had  found  her  unre- 
sponsive, ruminative,  inclined  to  be  irritable,  al- 
most morose.  For  a  day  they  had  kept  away  from 
the  hospital,  fearing  to  excite  him.  When  they 
had  gone  again  he  had  talked  to  them  quietly,  but 
without  knowing  them. 

"In  a  general  way,"  said  Frank,  in  reply  to 
Bay's  remark,  "I  daresay  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
truth  in  all  that.  I  have  no  great  fancy,  for  in- 
stance, for  the  modern  fad  for  cutting  children's 
throats  about.  Probably,  on  the  whole,  it  means 
a  lot  of  needless  cruelty,  though  it  is  as  much  the 
fault  of  the  parents  as  the  doctors.  If  a  man  said 
plainly  that  he  would  not  have  his  child  cut,  the 
surgeon  would  have  to  put  his  knife  in  his  pocket 
instead  of  his  twenty-five  guineas.  But  in  Lau- 
rence's case  I  don't  know  what  else  you  were  to  do. 
It  is  obvious  that  you  can't  relieve  the  pressure  of 
a  bone  on  the  brain  by  medicines." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Bay,  a  little  grudgingly. 
"But,  in  any  case,  I  maintain  that  the  aim  of  medi- 
cal science  should  be  less  to  save  life  than  to  save 
pain.  If  it  can  only  be  saved  at  the  cost  of  life,  it 

220 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

is  better  to  pay  the  cost.  At  present  we  practise 
the  reverse  and  inflict  pain  to  save  life.  Years  ago 
human  life  used  to  be  regarded  too  lightly.  Now 
we  have  gone  to  the  other  extreme  and  exagger- 
ated its  sacredness.  Deformed,  maimed,  stunted 
life  is  preserved  at  any  price  of  pain." 

"So  you  subscribe  to  the  doctrine  of  the  elimina- 
tion of  the  unfit?"  said  Frank. 

"No — of  the  suffering.  Ten  years  of  pain — who 
would  willingly  live  through  it  ?  Does  anyone  ever 
think  of  the  pain,  mental  and  physical,  that  is 
ceaselessly  endured — ceaselessly — because  life  must 
not  be  sacrificed  ?  Mere  death,  put  in  the  balance 
against  that  tremendous  weight  of  suffering,  would 
be  insignificant.  What  does  the  prolongation  of 
life  come  to  in  the  long  run?  You  might  die  to- 
morrow, and  I  might  live  another  forty,  fifty,  sixty 
years.  In  the  end,  the  only  difference  would  be 
that  you  would  be  remembered  as  a  young  man 
and  I  as  an  old  woman." 

"Yes,  but  as  a  young  one,  too." 

"People  are  remembered  at  the  age  at  which 
they  die,"  said  Bay.  "Haven't  you  yet  found  that 
out?  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Anne  Boleyn  are  eter- 
nally young.  Time  can  never  make  them  anything 
else.  If  they  had  not  been  beheaded  they  might 
have  lived  into  shrivelled  age  and  have  been  so  re- 
membered. Everyyear  you  live  is  making  you  older, 

221 


not  temporarily,  but  everlastingly.  Once  lived,  a 
year  won't  be  obliterated  to  the  end  of  time :  you 
stamp  it  on  your  features  for  ever.  Queen  Vic- 
toria was  as  young  as  Lady  Jane  Grey  at  one  time ; 
but  she  lived  to  a  great  age,  and  so  in  our  minds 
we  see  her  old,  and  in  the  minds  of  future  genera- 
tions she  will  always  be  old.  They  will  see  pictures 
of  her  in  youth,  but  the  permanent,  steadfast  im- 
pression will  be  of  an  old  woman.  She  has  left  a 
great  name  and  she  personifies  a  great  era,  but  if 
the  choice  were  put  to  me,  as  a  woman,  I  would 
rather  have  Lady  Jane  Grey's  perpetual  youth." 

"So  you  argue,"  said  Frank,  "that  the  murders 
of  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Anne  Boleyn  were  justified 
on  the  ground  that  they  perpetuated  pleasant 
youthful  pictures  of  them?" 

"Owl!"  said  Bay. 

"At  any  rate,  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  proceeded 
Frank,  unabashed.  "For  my  part,  if  it  were  a  mat- 
ter of  choice,  I  should  certainly  prefer  to  keep 
going  on  and  take  things  as  they  came,  even  the 
chance  of  descending  to  posterity  an  octogenarian." 

"Your  personal  feeling  is  worth  very  little,"  said 
Bay:  "you  are  not  a  normal  case.  You  are  healthy, 
you  are  young,  you  are  rich;  you  are  one  of  the 
very,  very  few  people  in  the  world  to  whom  life  is 
all  roses." 

"You  say  that  to  me,"  said  Frank,  with  some 

222 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

reproach,  "when  you  know  my  errand  in  town,  my 
errand  this  morning  ?" 

"That  doesn't  affect  the  composition  of  your  lot 
in  life :  it  is  a  shadow  passing  across  it." 

"I  hope  it  may  be,"  said  Frank.  "I  hope  to 
heaven  it  may  be." 

"If  it  comes  to  that,"  he  went  on,  a  moment 
later,  "I  don't  know  that  you  yourself  have  very 
much  to  complain  about.  You  are  well  off  and 
young  and  healthy  and  independent ;  the  world  lies 
before  you;  you  have  everything  that  women 
covet." 

"For  all  that,"  said  Bay,  "I  would  willingly 
exchange  fates  with  that  flower-girl  who  is  flirting 
with  a  customer." 

"Oh,  come,  Bay,  you  are  morbid." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Bay;  "but  you  may  have 
it  that  way  if  you  like." 

"No  one  could  ever  accuse  you  of  not  doing 
your  own  thinking,"  said"  Frank,  after  a  pause. 
"You  are  certainly  entitled  to  the  suffrage." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Bay;  "I  don't  want  it.  A 
handcuffed  man  wouldn't  be  particularly  grateful 
to  you  for  rubbing  the  dust  off  his  manacles.  I 
believe  in  the  complete  enfranchisement  and  inde- 
pendence of  women;  but  you  must  begin  at  the 
beginning.  It  amuses  me  to  see  these  ladies,  who 
are  so  anxious  to  build  the  house  of  their  freedom, 

223 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

struggling  to  grub  up  the  grass  from  a  piece  of 
ground  with  an  oak  tree  in  the  middle  of  it.  To 
offer  us  a  parliamentary  vote — a  vote ! — while  you 
keep  us  shackled  in  the  ignominious  bondage  of 
marriage  is  a  ridiculous  contradiction  and  insult- 
ingly futile.  A  woman  can't  take  support  with 
one  hand  and  govern  the  country  with  the  other. 
Let  us  get  complete  independence;  then  we  will 
face  you." 

"You  object  to  marriage,  and  yet  you  marry!" 

"I  have  heard  that  remark  at  least  fifty  times 
before,"  said  Bay.  "It  sounds  stupider  every  time 
it  is  repeated,  and  it  was  fatuous  at  the  beginning. 
By  marrying  we  don't  set  the  seal  of  our  approba- 
tion upon  marriage  as  an  institution.  We  marry 
because  we  have  to;  because  it  is  the  only  system 
that  exists.  We  are  governed  by  the  majority. 
We  may  not  care  for  the  present  form  of  govern- 
ment, but  we  have  to  submit  to  it  while  it  lasts." 

"In  other  words,"  said  Frank,  calmly,  "you 
mean  that  you  have  not  the  courage  of  your  con- 
viction?" 

"I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Bay,  quite 
unmoved.  "My  conviction  is  that  the  abolition  of 
compulsory  ties  is  good  for  the  community,  not  for 
isolated  individuals.  It  is  bad  for  isolated  indi- 
viduals, because  it  results  in  wholesale  ostracism. 
People  may  pretend  to  scorn  it,  but  wholesale  os- 

224 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

tracism  must  stunt  growth  of  all  kinds  and  utterly 
warp  one's  faculties,  besides  closing  the  door  to 
every  useful  outlet  of  energy." 

"Any  other  system  would  be  impracticable,"  said 
Frank. 

"So  the  housekeeper  says  who  has  got  used  to 
domestic  servants;  so  the  old  gentleman  says  who 
has  got  used  to  his  lunch  at  one  and  his  dinner  at 
eight.  Everything  seems  impracticable  except  the 
thing  we  are  accustomed  to.  We  couldn't  make 
a  radical  change  even  in  the  times  of  our  meals 
without  reorganising  most  of  the  other  affairs  of 
life,  but  that  doesn't  mean  that  they  are  not  reor- 
ganisable." 

"But  why  make  a  change  at  all?" 

"Because  the  present  system  is  constricting,  de- 
grading, and  sordid." 

"Oh,  that  is  sheer  dogmatising.  Supposing  I 
take  a  fancy  to  someone,  and  someone  takes  a 
fancy  to  me — it  is  unlikely,  I  admit,  but  unlikelier 
things  have  happened — and  supposing  we  each 
think  we  should  like  to  spend  the  rest  of  our  lives 
together;  why  shouldn't  we?" 

"You  may  do.  I  don't  want  to  prevent  you,  but 
I  don't  want  to  bind  you.  The  essence  of  a  tie  of 
that  sort  is  its  voluntariness." 

"Of  course,"  said  Frank,  a  little  drily,  "I  have 
left  out  of  the  question  its  inherent  immorality." 

225 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"A  good  thing  for  you  you  have,"  said  Bay. 

They  drove  some  distance  in  silence. 

"You  are  coming  to  lunch  with  me?"  said 
Frank,  as  they  approached  his  hotel. 

"Willingly,  if  only  my  own  feelings  had  to  be 
considered." 

"Whom  else  have  you  to  think  of?" 

"Whom  else?  I  have  left  my  poor  darling 
Cynthia  at  home,  nursing  a  frightful  head  and  sick 
for  news." 

The  cab  stopped.    Frank  jumped  out. 

"You  can  telephone,"  he  said.  "Come  along. 
You  want  a  fillip — a  bottle  of  Pommery.  You  have 
been  tearing  about  the  last  few  days,  looking  after 
everybody  and  everything,  and  you  have  got  more 
out  of  gear  than  you  realise." 

"Idiot!" 

"Out  you  come!" 

He  stretched  out  his  hand.  With  a  shrug  of 
resignation,  Bay  put  her  foot  on  the  step  and 
sprang  to  the  pavement. 

She  went  straight  to  the  telephone  in  the  hotel 
and  waited  impatiently  for  the  answer  to  her  call. 

"Are  you  there  ?  .  .  .  Are  you  there  ?  ...  Is 
that  you,  Cynthia  ?  .  .  .  Oh — will  you  ask  Mrs. 
Elwestocome?  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Bay. 
....  I  am  at  the  Ritz.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  am  lunching 
with  him.  .  .  .  They  operated  this  morning.  .  .  . 

226 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  big  man  says  there  is  a  fair  chance  ...  A 
fair  chance — he  won't  say  more  than  that.  .  .  . 
It's  touch  and  go,  dear,  it's  no  use  pretending  it's 
not.  ...  I  shall  call  before  I  come  home.  .  .  . 
Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  ...  By  tea-time — perhaps  be- 
fore— as  soon  as  this  brute  will  let  me  go.  .  .  . 
How  is  the  head?  ...  Go  and  lie  down  again." 

She  snapped  back  the  ear-piece. 

"I  don't  know  if  you  know  it,  Bay,"  said  Frank, 
calmly,  "but  you  have  got  into  the  habit  of  talking 
of  Mrs.  Elwes  almost  as  if — well,  almost  as  if  she 
were  Laurence's  wife." 

"If  she  were,"  retorted  Bay,  "she  would  be  a 
sister-in-law  to  be  proud  of." 

"I  don't  deny  it,  but  that  is  hardly  the  point, 
since  she  has  a  husband  living."  He  led  her  to  a 
corner  of  the  lounge.  "You  know  more  than  I  do 
about  this  affair,  Bay,  and  you  represent  a  sort  of 
common  meeting-ground  of  all  concerned.  Per- 
haps you  think  I  see  little  because  I  say  little.  That 
is  not  quite  the  case.  I  know  that  Mrs.  Elwes  left 
her  husband  about  the  same  time  that  Laurence 
met  his  mysterious  accident  in  her  house;  and  the 
inference  is  tolerably  clear.  So  long  as  all  goes 
right  and  he  gets  well  I  am  quite  content — both  for 
his  sake  and  for  others — to  make  no  awkward  in- 
quiries. But  if  things  don't  go  right — if  he  should 

227 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

not  get  better — I  fancy  there  is  someone  who  will 
have  to  answer  for  it." 

Bay  took  a  step  towards  him  and  looked  straight 
up  into  his  face,  her  hands  clenched,  her  eyes  sud- 
denly ablaze,  her  whole  form  tense. 

"Someone  will  have  to  answer  for  it,"  she  said 
God!" 


228 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHEN  the  last  of  Cynthia's  trunks  had  been 
carried  downstairs,  when  Cynthia  herself  had 
clanged  the  front  door  behind  her,  Harvey  was 
left  in  no  doubt  that  her  withdrawal  was  final  and 
permanent.  In  ordinary  circumstances  the  loss  of 
his  wife  would  have  moved  him  to  a  state  of  dis- 
tracted misery;  the  sense  of  the  wrong  he  suffered 
would  have  borne  upon  him  with  tremendous 
force;  he  would  have  set  about  efforts  to  recover; 
her  in  a  ferment  of  twittering  agitation.  So  heavy, 
however,  was  the  dread  which  had  settled  upon 
him  of  the  consequences  of  his  crime  that  Cynthia's 
departure  passed  almost  unnoticed.  He  made  no 
attempt  to  prevent  her,  to  dissuade  her,  even  to 
bid  her  farewell.  Viewed  in  relation  to  the  immi- 
nent danger  he  supposed  to  be  surrounding  him,  it 
appeared  an  incident  of  such  minor  importance 
that  it  hardly  affected  him  at  all. 

For  the  first  days  he  did  not  venture  outside  the 
house.  He  closeted  himself  in  the  small  room  up- 
stairs, peering  surreptitiously  from  the  window, 

229 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

shivering  at  the  sight  of  a  constable  on  his  beat, 
starting  violently  at  the  sound  of  the  front-door 
bell.  During  this  period  he  consumed  great  quan- 
tities of  tobacco,  but,  curiously  enough,  drank  com- 
paratively little.  The  fright  had  driven  out  of 
him  the  desire  for  alcohol.  He  sat  for  the  most 
part  in  an  easy-chair,  one  hand  in  his  trouser- 
pocket,  the  other  grasping  the  bowl  of  his  pipe, 
staring  in  front  of  him  with  harassed,  scared  eyes, 
periodically  removing  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  to 
swallow,  periodically  getting  up  to  peer  out  of  the 
window.  That,  with  regular  breaks  for  meals, 
represented  practically  his  life  for  four  days. 

He  was  tortured  by  his  inability  to  learn  any- 
thing of  Laurence's  condition.  No  news  reached 
him,  and  he  dared  not  go  to  the  hospital  to  in- 
quire. He  lived  in  still  exclusion.  He  heard  the 
jingle  of  plate  at  meal-times,  he  heard  the  servants 
occasionally  moving  about  the  house — he  cared  not 
whether  they  came  or  went — he  heard  the  distant 
rumble  of  traffic,  and  that  was  all.  So  far  as  any 
definite  conception  of  his  motives  had  taken  shape 
in  his  mind,  he  felt  that  while  he  remained  closeted 
away  out  of  sight  and  hearing  he  might  be  over- 
looked, forgotten ;  that  to  appear  upon  the  streets, 
particularly  to  approach  the  house  where  his  victim 
lay,  would  be  to  invite  recollection  and  reprisals.  As 
the  heavy  days  succeeded  one  another  in  stagnant 

230 


silence,  he  pictured  repeatedly,  almost  continuously, 
Laurence's  death.  The  residue  of  his  legal  knowl- 
edge was  sufficient  to  construct  the  sequel.  There 
would  be  an  inquest,  to  which,  in  the  first  instance, 
he  would  be  summoned  as  a  witness — a  witness 
who  would  be  cautioned  before  he  gave  evidence, 
quietly  prevented  from  leaving  the  precincts  of 
the  court,  and  arrested  when  the  jury  had  re- 
turned their  verdict.  Again  and  again  he  reached 
the  conclusion  that  the  first  intimation  he  would 
receive  of  Laurence's  death  must  be  his  summons 
by  the  coroner's  officer. 

On  the  fourth  afternoon  he  had  strung  this  chain 
of  probabilities  for  the  hundredth  time,  when  a 
ring  at  the  front-door  bell  was  followed,  after  a 
short  interval,  by  a  heavy  tread  on  the  stairs.  He 
immediately  relinquished  all  hope,  immediately 
and  completely  collapsed.  As  the  heavy  step  slowly 
and  steadily  came  up,  up,  up,  he  drooped  and 
crouched  in  his  chair,  flaccid  and  quivering.  When 
it  had  reached  the  landing,  and  a  hand  was  laid 
upon  the  knob  of  his  door,  he  lost  the  last  remnant 
of  control ;  a  violent  spasm  wrung  him,  and,  as  the 
door  opened,  he  turned  a  face  of  helpless  terror; 
upon — the  Vet. 

The  sturdy  doctor  was  a  man  of  phlegmatic  tem- 
perament, accustomed  to  take  things  very  much  as 
they  came ;  but  Harvey's  curious  appearance  caused 

231 


him  to  pause  for  a  moment  in  surprise.  The  latter 
was  not  immediately  reassured  by  the  sight  of  him : 
he  supposed  that  he  had  come  with  the  first  friend- 
ly warning,  with  a  recommendation  of  instant 
flight. 

"Hello,  Elwes !"  said  his  visitor,  drily.  "You 
don't  seem  to  be  yourself." 

Harvey  started  up  from  his  chair,  recovering 
with  an  effort  a  semblance  of  his  habitual  bearing. 
"What  have  you  heard?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

The  Vet.  became  curious.  "I  don't  see  the 
point,"  he  said.  "What's  in  the  wind?" 

"Why  have  you  come?"  said  Harvey,  oblivious 
of  the  civilities  in  his  anxiety. 

"You  are  uncommonly  hospitable,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, with  a  short  laugh.  "I  was  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, so  I  thought  I  would  look  you  up.  Nobody 
has  seen  you  for  nearly  a  week." 

"I  haven't  been  able  to  get  out,"  said  Harvey, 
quickly.  His  legs  hardly  supported  him,  but  he 
became  acutely  anxious  now  to  hide  the  cause  of  his 
fears.  "Have  a  cigarette?" 

Craven  strode  across  the  room  with  the  slight 
suggestion  of  swagger  that  was  natural  in  his  gait 
.and  took  one  from  the  box.  "Yes,  but  what  has 
got  hold  of  you,  Elwes?"  he  said,  tapping  the 
cigarette  on  the  mantelpiece  to  shake  down  the 

232 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

tobacco.  "When  I  came  into  the  room  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  have  a  fit." 

"Nothing,"  said  Harvey.  "I've  been  a  bit 
seedy.  Have  a  drink?" 

"Queer  complaint  to  take  you  in  that  way,"  said 
the  Vet.,  helping  himself.  "Look  here,  Elwes — 
sit  down — it  appears  to  me  that  you  have  had  a 
shock  of  some  kind." 

Harvey,  who  was  still  slightly  unsteady,  dropped 
into  his  chair. 

"Been  doing  much  of  this?"  proceeded  Craven, 
calmly,  spurting  soda  into  his  glass. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Harvey,  bridling. 

"There's  no  need  to  get  chippy.  I've  seen  some- 
thing of  the  effects  of  overdoing  it ;  and  when  you 
go  into  a  room  and  a  man  takes  you  apparently  for 
a  prehistoric  beast,  the  idea  isn't  particularly  out- 
rageous." 

"It's  a  private  trouble,"  said  Harvey,  shortly. 

"I'm  sorry,  old  chap,"  said  the  Vet.,  patently 
unconvinced,  but  willing  to  leave  the  matter  at  that. 
He  sat  down  and  crossed  his  legs;  and  if  one  could 
have  inferred  anything  from  the  expression  of  his 
face,  it  would  have  been  that  the  limit  of  his 
whisky-and-soda  would  be  the  limit  of  his  visit. 

"Do  you  ever  go  to  Anne  Street,  Vet.?"  said 
Harvey,  suddenly,  looking  up  with  a  bird-like  spar- 
kle in  his  eyes.  In  spite  of  his  keen  anxiety  to 

233 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

avoid  the  subject  that  oppressed  his  mind,  he  could 
not  resist  the  opportunity  to  search  for  possible 
scraps  of  information. 

"I  have  been,"  said  the  Vet.  "What  makes  you 
ask?" 

"I  heard  of  it  the  other  day,"  said  Harvey, 
lamely.  "I  was  told  there  were  private  nursing 
homes  there." 

Craven  pricked  up  his  ears.  "All  round  that 
neighbourhood,"  he  said.  "I've  sometimes  had 
patients  in  them." 

Harvey  strove  not  to  show  too  great  an  interest. 
"Have  you  any  there  now?" 

"No,"  said  the  Vet.  He  felt  himself  on  the 
scent  of  something  that  might  bear  on  Harvey's 
behaviour,  and  added  sagaciously:  "I  often  have 
to  go  through  that  district ;  I  can  tell  you  anything 
you  want  to  know  about  it." 

"I  suppose  you  would  hear  about  important 
cases  there?" 

"In  a  private  hospital?"  Craven  was  mildly 
tickled.  "There  would  have  to  be  some  very  ex- 
ceptional features." 

This  brought  Harvey  to  the  end  of  his  tether. 
He  was  not  quite  sure  what  Craven  meant  by 
"exceptional  features"  ;the  expression  alarmed  him, 
and  he  dared  not  press  for  elucidation.  He  felt 
it  might  probably  have  some  reference  to  foul  play. 

234 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

His  mind,  by  continual  brooding,  had  so  coloured 
the  matter  that  preyed  upon  it  that  he  believed  one 
had  only  to  go  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Anne 
Street  to  find  the  staple  subject  of  conversation  to 
be  Laurence's  condition  and  the  circumstances  at- 
tending his  injury.  He  pictured  the  house  in  which 
he  lay  beset  by  a  perpetual  stream  of  nurses,  sur- 
geons and  visitors;  sometimes,  in  his  darker 
images,  by  undertakers'  men  and  coroner's  officers,; 
lawyers  and  police.  If  Craven  had  passed  there  in 
the  last  few  days  it  seemed  very  unlikely  that  he 
could  be  without  some  inkling  of  what  was  going 
on.  "Exceptional  features"  had  an  ominous 
sound. 

He  darted  away  from  the  dangerous  topic,  flut- 
tered about  it  in  narrowing  circles,  and  eventually 
plunged  into  it  again  from  a  different  side. 

"I  suppose  you've  often  had  cases  of  fracture?" 
he  said. 

"Fracture  of  what?" 

"The  skull." 

"The  skull !"  said  the  Vet.  His  speculative  in- 
terest was  again  touched.  "I  have  seen  plenty  of 
cases  in  hospital.  They  are  not  very  common  in 
general  practice." 

"I  suppose  it's  dangerous?" 

"To  have  your  head  broken!"  The  doctor 
smiled.  "Yes,  it's  tolerably  dangerous,  Elwes." 

235 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"But  they  sometimes  recover?" — acutely. 

"Occasionally,"  said  the  Vet,  with  his  slight 
drawl,  "if  the  patient  is  in  good  hands.  It's  usually 
fatal." 

Harvey  perceptibly  blanched;  which  the  other 
did  not  fail  to  observe. 

"Of  course  you  can  have  a  knock  on  the  head 
without  fracture,"  he  proceeded  blandly.  "It  may 
produce  only  contusion  or  laceration.  It  depends 
upon  the  knock." 

"A  knock  with  a  hammer?"  suggested  Harvey, 
tentatively. 

"What  sort  of  a  hammer?    A  sledge-hammer?" 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  any  particular  case,"  Har- 
vey assured  him  hastily.  "You  see  cases  in  the 
paper  where  people  get  struck  with  coal-hammers 
and  hatchets  and  things  of  that  kind.  I  was  won- 
dering what  happened." 

"A  six-foot  drop  usually  happens,"  said  the  Vet., 
drily. 

Harvey  started  violently.  A  cold  shiver  ran 
through  him  and  appeared  in  perspiration  on  his 
brow.  Conscious  of  the  damaging  effect,  he  at- 
tempted to  cover  it  the  next  instant,  sitting  upright, 
clutching  the  knobs  of  his  chair.  He  forced  his 
lips  to  smile.  "Have  another  drink?"  he  said. 

The  whole  process  had  been  perfectly  clear  to 
Craven.  He  felt  perplexed  and  a  little  discon- 

236 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

certed.  "No,  thanks,  old  chap;  I  think  I'll  be 
ambling,"  he  said,  getting  up.  "I'm  sorry  there's 
trouble  about.  I  should  go  out  more,"  he  added; 
"come  to  the  club.  Don't  sit  in  the  house  and 
worry;  it  is  bound  to  produce  nerves." 

He  was  a  man  who  did  not  lack  perspicuity, 
however,  and  that  he  had  attained  a  rough  knowl- 
edge of  the  source  of  Harvey's  depression  was 
manifested  by  his  concluding  words. 

"By  the  way,  Elwes,"  he  turned  at  the  door  to 
say,  "what  is  your  interest  in  this  fellow  with  his 
head  smashed  in  Anne  Street?" 

Harvey  gazed  at  him  with  undisguised  conster- 
nation, confirmed  in  his  apprehensions.  "What 
have  you  heard?"  he  ejected,  under  his  breath. 

"Only  what  you've  told  me,"  said  the  Vet.,  and 
lumbered  pleasantly  down  the  stairs,  slightly  swag- 
gering his  elbows. 

Whether  Harvey  would  have  adopted  his  advice 
to  emerge  from  seclusion  without  the  help  of  con- 
current circumstances  cannot  be  known,  for  on  the 
morrow  of  Craven's  visit  such  help  was  vouchsafed 
him.  It  has  been  obvious,  of  course,  to  those  stu- 
dents of  human  nature  who  have  been  following 
the  course  of  this  narrative  that  the  sensational 
events  which  the  house  in  Neville  Road  had  re- 
cently witnessed  could  not  take  place  without  con- 
siderable gossip  at  area  railings  and  elsewhere.  So 

237 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

interesting  a  scandal  no  doubt  percolated,  with 
refreshing  effect,  to  many  drawing-rooms  and  many 
smoke-rooms,  even  outside  the  radius  of  the 
Elweses'  immediate  acquaintance.  At  all  events, 
some  rough  account  of  the  affair  got  into  the 
papers :  to  be  quite  accurate,  it  got  into  one  paper. 
A  widely  circulated  halfpenny  journal,  by  means 
known  only  to  itself,  obtained  certain  semi-correct 
information,  which  it  served  up  by  instalments  for 
three  days,  under  the  heading  "A  Wronged  Hus- 
band" The  matter  it  had  to  detail  was  conceived 
and  presented  in  the  spirit  of  that  heading. 

Harvey's  one  point  of  touch  with  the  outer 
world  was  the  daily  press.  When  this  rendering 
of  his  case  came  under  his  eye  it  produced  in  quick 
succession  three  separate  emotions:  astonishment, 
tumultuous  relief  and  gratification,  finally  incre- 
dulity of  his  own  failure  theretofore  to  recognise 
the  true  position.  To  say  that  the  account  acted 
as  a  tonic  would  be  to  write  inadequately.  He 
swung  in  one  movement  from  the  extreme  of  trepi- 
dation to  bombastic  confidence.  Immediately  after 
breakfast,  on  the  day  that  the  first  report  appeared, 
he  issued  from  his  front  door  with  the  paper  under 
his  arm.  He  felt  himself  to  be  not  merely  a  free 
man,  but  a  hero.  To  be  the  subject  of  a  newspaper 
article  in  any  character  was  to  him  sufficient  to  lift 
a  man  to  a  plane  above  his  fellows.  In  crowded 

238 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

thoroughfares  he  supposed  that  people  were  point- 
ing him  out  to  one  another  as  the  man  who  had 
shown  so  bold  a  front  in  trying  circumstances. 

He  kept  the  cuttings  in  his  pocket,  and  showed 
them,  when  he  was  sober,  to  his  more  intimate 
friends,  and,  at  other  times,  to  the  circle  at  the  club. 
He  watched  them  circulating  with  the  smile  of  one 
modestly  conscious  of  well-merited  fame.  When 
they  had  passed  round  he  made  sure  that  the  note- 
worthy points  should  be  fully  appreciated  by  draw- 
ing his  nearest  neighbour's  attention  to  particular 
passages. 

"You  see  what  it  says  here,"  he  would  point  out, 
running  his  finger  swiftly  along  the  print,  and  read- 
ing at  the  same  time — 

"Mr.  Elwes,  with  the  excusable  passion  which 
such  circumstances  would  arouse,  struck  his  wife's 
betrayer  a  determined  blow." 

On  the  previous  day  the  paper  had  said  that  he 
gave  Laurence  "a  sound  thrashing,"  but  had  ap- 
parently subsequently  obtained  better  and  fuller 
information  at  the  area  gate. 

"It  was  an  awful  position  to  be  in,"  was  the 
grave  commentary  with  which  he  invariably  re- 
turned the  cuttings  to  his  pocket.  "It  was  the  only 
thing  I  could  do.  But  I  hope  he'll  get  better,"  he 
added  magnanimously.  Having  replaced  the 
papers  and  taken  out  his  pipe  and  tobacco,  he  broke 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  difficult  silence  which  usually  ensued  by  again 
expressing  himself  generously  in  the  same  terms. 

This  was  the  mood  which  animated  him  for 
nearly  a  fortnight.  Then  by  degrees  he  settled 
back  into  his  previous  condition  of  quaking  depres- 
sion. The  halfpenny  newspaper  ceased  to  print 
flattering  descriptions  of  his  conduct ;  his  friends,  as 
a  whole,  appeared  to  regard  him  as  a  person  calling 
less  for  compliments  than  for  condolence;  stran- 
gers in  railway  carriages  and  in  bars  contended 
that  they  had  not  heard  his  name,  and  kept  their 
enthusiasm  in  remarkable  control  even  after  having 
been  accorded  an  opportunity  to  read  the  cuttings. 
The  halo  about  his  head  showed  an  obstinate  in- 
disposition to  materialise.  Concurrently,  the  re- 
ports he  could  glean  of  Laurence's  progress  were 
not  encouraging.  The  Vet.  and  other  emissaries 
who  consented  to  make  inquiries  at  the  hospital 
were  informed  that  he  was  alive,  but  still  in  a  pre- 
carious condition.  In  brief,  when  he  rose  in  the 
morning  and  went  down  to  his  solitary  meal  in  his 
silent  house,  he  saw  himself,  Harvey  Elwes,  minus 
his  halo,  minus  his  wife,  and  plus  the  shadow  of 
the  rope. 

His  intimate  circle  did  their  best  to  encourage 
him  (when  he  had  "ordered  the  liquid").  They 
told  him,  with  airy  confidence,  that  the  man  who 
killed  his  wife's  lover  always  got  off.  It  was  a 

240 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

recognised  thing ;  it  was  a  matter  that  need  not  af- 
ford him  a  moment's  uneasiness.  Masters,  towards 
the  close  of  a  heavy  day's  work  with  his  elbow, 
informed  him  definitely,  as  one  favoured  with 
special  knowledge,  that  you  were  "allowed  to 
do  it." 

These  assurances  satisfied  him  when  the  material 
spirit  had  mounted  his  brow;  but  in  the  sober  re- 
action his  latent  knowledge  of  British  jurispru- 
dence persistently  arose  unconfounded  and  faced 
him  with  calm  and  steady  facts.  He  knew  that  if 
Laurence  died  within  a  year  the  charge  against  him 
must  be  one  of  murder;  that  no  juggling  of  legal 
forms  could  reduce  even  to  manslaughter  a  fatal 
blow  incontestably  inflicted  with  the  intention  of 
doing  grievous  bodily  harm.  Let  the  sentiment  of 
the  halfpenny  press  be  what  it  might,  he  would 
have  to  stand  the  charge  and  probably  the  sen- 
tence, resting  his  hope  of  delivery  upon  the  exten- 
sion of  the  royal  clemency.  Even  to  be  sentenced 
to  death,  when  fully  pictured,  was  a  thought  to 
send  the  blood  in  his  veins  shivering  back  to  his 
heart. 

"What  would  you  advise  me  to  do?"  he  asked 
feverishly  one  afternoon  at  the  Golf  Club.  "Would 
you  stay  here  and  risk  it,  or  would  you  go  while 
there's  time?  I  don't  think  I'm  watched." 

"Watched!"  cried  John  Jacob.  "I'm  a  plain- 
241 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

clothes  officer,  and  Masters  is  the  executioner.  We 
watch  you  in  every  bar  in  London.  You  never  go 
out  of  our  sight." 

"We  are  drinking  ourselves  to  death,"  said  Mas- 
ters, "in  the  cause  of  duty.  Here's  to  a  quick 
despatch,  old  bhoy  1" 

It  speaks  volumes  as  to  the  state  of  Harvey's 
mind  at  this  period  that  he  looked  at  John  Jacob's 
boots. 


242 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Six  weeks  after  receiving  his  injury,  Laurence 
was  removed  from  the  nursing  home  to  Bay's  flat. 
The  doctors  had  been  somewhat  averse  to  this — 
doctors,  in  their  enthusiasm  for  perfect  hygienic 
and  therapeutic  conditions,  are  apt  to  overlook  the 
more  subtle  effect  likely  to  be  produced  upon  the 
mind  of  a  patient  by  surroundings,  however  whole- 
some and  convenient,  designed  exclusively  and  un- 
mistakably for  invalid  use — but  Bay  had  been  de- 
termined to  carry  her  point  as  soon  as  the  trans- 
ference could  be  effected  without  actual  risk.  It 
appeared  to  her  that,  in  the  familiar  environment 
of  an  ordinary  bedroom,  associated  continuously 
with  the  familiar  faces  and  voices  of  Cynthia  and 
herself,  a  normal  mental  state  (now  the  point  of 
chief  anxiety)  would  more  surely  and  quickly  be 
restored.  By  sharing  a  room  with  Cynthia  she  was 
able  to  make  her  restricted  accommodation  suffice 
for  the  additional  call  upon  it. 

Laurence  was  by  no  means  out  of  the  wood,  but 
his  day-by-day  improvement  was  distinct  and  main- 

243 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

taincd.  He  was  still  in  a  precarious,  though  no 
longer  in  a  perilous,  condition.  By  degrees  he  was 
recovering  consciousness  (they  shunned  the  more 
terrible  word  "sanity") .  He  had  ceased  to  be  sub- 
ject to  fits  of  violence,  and  his  periods  of  ration- 
ality became  more  frequent  and  were  longer. 

He  had  several  times  talked  calmly  to  those 
about  him  at  the  hospital,  asked  questions,  re- 
mained sensible  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  and  then 
dropped  back  into  lethargy  or  semi-delirium.  These 
gleams  left  no  impression  on  his  mind,  however, 
and  were  completely  forgotten  on  a  subsequent  re- 
turn to  temporary  consciousness.  Whether  it  were 
the  result  of  Bay's  policy  of  a  change  of  environ- 
ment, or  whether  it  were  mere  coincidence,  his  first 
period  of  sustained  rational  conversation  followed 
within  three  days  of  his  removal  to  the  flat.  It 
was  a  morning  in  early  February.  It  chanced  that 
Bay  was  alone  in  the  room  with  him.  The  nurse 
had  gone  to  bed  and  Cynthia  was  temporarily  ab- 
sent. Bay  had  drawn  the  curtains  wide  to  let  in 
all  the  light  which  the  dull  day  would  concede,  had 
put  coals  on  the  fire,  and  for  several  minutes  had 
been  sitting  by  his  bedside,  bending  over  some 
needlework. 

"You  are  astonishingly  industrious,   Bay,"  he 
said  suddenly. 

244 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  turned  her  head  quickly  and  found  him  ob- 
serving her  calmly. 

"I  have  been  watching  you  for  ten  minutes," 
he  informed  her  in  a  voice  that  was  quite  natural, 
though  a  little  weak,  "and  you  have  never  once 
stopped  working  nor  looked  up." 

"I  would  work  much  longer  than  ten  minutes," 
she  said,  with  a  bright  light  in  her  face,  "if  I  could 
always  make  you  tell  me  of  it  in  that  tone." 

"Have  I  been  talking  rubbish?  I  rather  thought 
so.  I  got  a  knock  of  some  sort.  It  was  my  own 
fault  for  not  watching  him.  I  saw  he  had  some- 
thing in  his  hand.  But  I  don't  quite  know  why  I 
am  poked  in  bed?"  He  made  an  effort  to  raise 
himself,  but  soon  returned  to  the  pillows,  surprised 
and  chagrined  at  his  own  feebleness. 

Bay  put  back  the  covers  over  him.  "You  can't 
be  in  bed  for  six  weeks  without  becoming  weak, 
goat." 

"The  confounded  little  rat!"  Laurence  was 
about  to  proceed  along  the  line  of  his  recollections, 
but  checked  himself.  "How  do  we  stand,  you  and 
I,  Bay?"  he  said.  "I  seem  to  take  you  surprisingly 
as  a  matter  of  course.  How  much  do  you  know, 
and  where  are  we  located?" 

"I  know  everything,"  she  answered,  "and  we 
are  in  my  flat." 

245 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Can  you  look  at  me  without  blinking  and  tell 
me  I  have  been  in  your  flat  for  six  weeks?"  said 
Laurence,  aghast. 

"You  haven't,"  replied  Bay:  "onfy  for  a  few 
days.  You  were  in  a  nursing  home  before." 

"Even  that  is  sufficient  to  answer  for.  It 
seems  I  am  tethered  for  the  present.  You 
have  burdened  yourself  with  the  nuisance  of  an 
invalid  for  heaven  knows  how  long.  How  on 
earth  do  you  suppose  I  am  ever  going  to  get 
straight?" 

"Do  you  think  I  care?"  cried  Bay,  almost  fierce- 
ly. "Do  you  think  I  mind  about  that?" 

"But  why  should  you  have  me  here?" 

"I  have  someone  else  here,"  said  Bay,  in  a  low 
voice.  Then,  made  greedy  of  the  present  good  by 
her  own  words,  she  went  on  quickly:  "Frank  has 
been  in  town  all  the  time.  And  the  door  is  be- 
sieged by  your  friends.  I  object  to  your  friends. 
Some  of  them  even  try  to  force  their  way  in  here." 

"What  friends?"  said  Laurence,  eagerly.  Then 
he  laughed  slightly  and  changed  his  tone :  "Oh,  but 
I  needn't  beat  about  the  bush.  Where  is ?" 

While  the  words  were  on  his  lips,  before  he 
could  utter  the  name,  the  door  opened  and  Cynthia 
came  in — tranquil  and  graceful. 

"Dear  heaven  on  earth,"  said  Laurence,   fer- 
246 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

vently.     "I  have  come  back  to  an  earth  far  better 
than  any  heaven  I  wish  to  find." 

Bay  quietly  moved  from  her  place  at  the  bed- 
side, and  Cynthia  immediately  filled  it,  scarcely 
noticing,  in  her  joy,  that  it  had  been  resigned. 

"Laurence — oh,  Laurence !"  Cynthia  could  say 
no  more.  She  could  only  gaze,  with  unutterable 
thankfulness,  into  the  eyes  at  last  looking  back 
sanely  into  hers,  at  last  returning  her,  with  satisfy- 
ing wholeness,  the  love  she  poured  into  them. 

Again  she  scarcely  noticed  that  Bay  moved  to 
the  door  and  quietly  went  out  of  the  room. 

"And  where  have  you  been  these  six  weeks  that 
I  have  broken  my  promise  to  wait  for  you  at 
Charing  Cross  ?"  said  Laurence.  Their  four  hands 
lay  together  on  the  coverlet. 

"Here,"  said  Cynthia,  "with  Bay." 

"All  the  time?" 

"Yes,  all  the  time;  and  Eric,  too,  until  the  other 
day,  when  you  were  coming,  and  we  sent  him  into 
the  country.  She  gave  me  a  home  when  I  had  no 
home  to  go  to.  I  can  never  repay  her." 

"We  are  wallowing  in  her  debt,"  said  Laurence, 
"steeped  in  it.  When  I  am  fixed  up  again  we  will 
try  and  get  at  least  our  heads  out." 

They  were  silent  for  a  time. 

"That  means  you  have  left ?"     Laurence 

did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

247 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Absolutely." 

"Thank  God !    Such  a  life  was  unthinkable." 

Still  holding  her  hands,  he  closed  his  eyes  for 
a  while,  and  his  mind  gradually  ran  into  a  new 
train  of  thought,  induced  by  an  expression  that  had 
fallen  from  her. 

He  lifted  his  lids  again  in  a  few  minutes.  "Tell 
me  the  truth  about  this,"  he  said:  "I  have  been 
seriously  ill?" 

"Yes,  very." 

"Likely  to  die?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Am  I  clear  of  the  wood  yet?" 

"I  think  so — I  hope  so." 

"There  is  a  doubt."  He  paused  for  a  moment. 
"Is  there  anyone  here  can  take  a  message?" 

"You  must  not  think  of  messages,"  said  Cynthia, 
softly.  "You  are  much  too  ill  still." 

"That  is  the  reason  this  one  will  have  to  go.  I 
want  the  nearest  lawyer  at  once." 

"You  are  not  going  to  die,  dearest,"  said  Cyn- 
thia, making  no  pretence  of  misunderstanding  his 
purpose;  "and  even  if  you  were,  I  could  not  allow 
you  to  do  that." 

"At  once,  Cynthia." 

"Think  to  what  it  would  reduce  me." 

"You  are  irreducible." 

"I  have  my  brain  and  my  hands.  I  thought  I 
248 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

might  have  to  rely  on  them — a  little  while  ago. 
I  did  not  flinch,  and  I  should  not  flinch;  and  I 
would  rather  have  it  so.  Please,  please." 

He  pressed  her  hands  as  closely  as  the  remain- 
ing strength  in  him  permitted.  "Cynthia,  do  you 
want  me  to  get  well?" 

She  only  looked  at  him. 

"Then  you  will  do  as  I  wish.  I  could  not  pos- 
sibly make  any  progress  with  such  an  intolerable 
weight  on  my  mind.  It  would  torture  me  day  and 
night.  It  is  a  nightmare  even  to  think  of  what 
might  have  happened." 

She  stroked  his  hand  gently.  "You  don't  realise 
your  own  weakness,  dear.  You  are  not  strong 
enough  yet  to  think  of  lawyers  and  wills." 

"Do  as  I  say."  Laurence  managed  to  lift  his 
head  and  spoke  with  sudden  intensity. 

"I  shall  go  away  unless  you  promise  to  be  quiet." 
Cynthia  rose  and  laid  her  soft  hands  upon  him  to 
press  him  back  upon  the  pillows. 

"Do  as  I  say."  His  eyes  were  beginning  to 
glow. 

"Hush!  Hush!  Be  quiet!"  said  Cynthia, 
quickly.  "I  will  send.  You  shall  have  him." 

She  went  out  of  the  room  to  look  for  Bay.  She 
found  her  sitting  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  her 
arms  on  the  window-ledge,  looking  out  into  the 
grey  street.  Cynthia  stood  for  a  few  moments 

249 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

without  speaking.  It  is  possible  that  as  she  looked 
at  the  solitary  figure — a  certain  air  of  dejection 
about  her  and  yet  of  resolution — a  first  faint  sus- 
picion of  the  truth  crossed  her  mind. 

"Bay,"  she  said  softly.  The  latter  had  not 
turned  as  she  entered.  "Bay." 

Bay  gathered  herself  out  of  her  reverie  and 
looked  round. 

"Aren't  you  glad  Laurence  is  better?"  asked 
Cynthia. 

"Of  course  1  am  glad." 

"Then  why  are  you  sitting  here — alone — in  this 
way?" 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  sit  with  the  servants?" 
said  Bay. 

"You  need  not  have  left  us." 

"Thank  you.  In  the  circumstances  the  kitchen 
would  be  preferable." 

Cynthia  walked  up  to  her.  "You  know  you 
could  never  possibly  be  anything  but  welcome  any- 
where I  am,"  she  said  reproachfully. 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  Bay,  plainly.  "And  you  were 
not  the  only  person  concerned." 

"Or  to  Laurence,  either." 

"I  doubt  it  even  more.  Besides,  I  can  appreciate 
my  own  society.  I  commune  with  a  mind  which 
views  things  with  unusual  sanity." 

"You  looked  so  deep  in  thought,"  said  Cynthia, 
250 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

in  a  tone  of  concern.  "What  were  you  thinking 
about?" 

Bay  made  no  immediate  response. 

"Of  various  things,"  she  said  presently,  "various 
injustices.  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking 
about,"  she  cried,  starting  suddenly  to  her  feet.  "I 
was  thinking  that  that — that  worm  will  escape." 

An  hour  later  Laurence  had  signed  a  codicil  to 
his  will  and  had  fallen  into  a  natural  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  was  during  the  period  immediately  following 
Laurence's  first  definite  return  to  normal  mental 
conditions  that  Bay  emerged  one  afternoon  from 
the  block  of  flats,  amid  a  drift  of  cold  February 
sleet,  to  pay  a  visit  in  an  outlying  district  of  North 
London.  Journeying  partly  by  train  and  partly  on 
foot,  she  reached  at  length  a  new  house  of  com- 
fortable dimensions,  which  appeared  palatial  by 
contrast  with  the  interminable  rows  of  small  dwell- 
ings in  its  neighbourhood.  It  bore  on  its  railing 
the  brass  plate  of  a  member  of  the  medical  profes- 
sion, and  was  occupied  by  a  pleasant-featured, 
good-humoured  young  gentleman,  who  in  the  days 
before  Bay's  marriage  had  been  a  suitor  for  her 
hand.  She  had  met  his  advances  with  the  candid 
pronouncement  that  she  had  no  objection  to  being 
silly,  but  that  she  drew  the  line  at  stupidity.  Realis- 
ing in  the  course  of  time  that  this  was  the  best  he 
was  likely  to  obtain  from  her,  he  had  taken  his 
disappointment  philosophically  and  had  since  mar- 
ried happily,  but  had  never  relinquished,  as  far  as 
Bay  was  concerned,  his  right  to  be  silly. 

252 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

When  she  entered  his  surgery  it  appeared  that 
he  had  mis-heard  her  name,  for  she  found  him 
waiting  for  her  with  a  great  parade  of  professional 
solemnity.  Recognising  his  visitor,  he  became  im- 
mediately human. 

"What,  Bay!"  he  said,  breaking  into  a  delighted 
smile,  "who  was  known  long  since  and  lost  awhile.'* 

*  'Loved  long  since,'  "  said  Bay,  giving  him  her 
hand.  "If  you  must  blaspheme,  you  might  at  least 
quote  correctly." 

"It  would  be  equally  appropriate,"  said  the 
doctor,  cheerfully. 

He  drew  her  a  chair  to  the  fire  and  placed  one 
for  himself  in  close  proximity. 

"If  patients  will  leave  me  alone  for  half  an 
hour,"  he  said,  sitting  down,  "I  anticipate  an  ex- 
hilarating time.  A  conversation  with  you  is  the 
treatment  I  should  prescribe  for  the  condition  one 
gets  into  in  these  wilds.  It  is  more  stimulating 
than  any  tonic  I  know." 

"Is  half  an  hour  my  limit?"  said  Bay. 

"It  might  be  as  long  as  I  could  stand  being  told 
the  truth  without  losing  my  temper,"  he  replied. 
"And  that  is  twenty-five  minutes  longer  than  I  can 
stand  the  gossip  of  the  average  woman  without 
being  bored/' 

"You  shouldn't  be  a  doctor  if  you  can't  put  up 
253 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

with  gossip.  It's  all  you  are  wanted  for.  No  one 
expects  a  G.  P.  to  cure  anything." 

"The  G.  P.,"  said  this  aspersed  one,  "is  a  man 
who  knows  more  than  the  fashionable  specialist, 
but  who  doesn't  get  the  same  opportunities.  Ask 
any  of  us ;  we  shall  all  tell  you  so." 

"Of  course,  everyone  knows  the  fashionable  spe- 
cialist is  a  humbug,"  said  Bay,  calmly. 

"Do  you  believe  in  anything,  I  wonder?"  The 
doctor  laughed  cheerfully. 

"Decidedly.  For  one  thing,  I  believe  you  are 
as  big  a  gossip  as  your  patients." 

"That  is  a  serious  slander  on  a  professional  man. 
Besides,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  patients,  but  of 
women  generally.  I  assure  you  it  is  nothing  less 
than  tragic,  to  my  mind,  to  consider  the  number 
of  fine  female  characters  that  are  utterly  spoilt  by 
a  congenital  inability  to  avoid  discussing  their 
neighbours'  affairs." 

"You  should  drop  the  medical  profession,"  said 
Bay,  "and  set  up  as  a  consultant  philosopher." 

"As  a  disparaged  G.  P.,"  continued  the  doctor, 
quite  undisturbed,  "I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of 
women  and  women's  ailments,  and  my  conclusion 
is  that  they  suffer  chiefly  from  two  things :  one  is 
this  tendency  to  gossip,  the  other  is  a  rooted  belief 
that  they  can  sing.  There  is  no  greater  misfortune 
than  to  be  born  with  an  idea  that  you  can  sing. 

254 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Ninety-nine  per  cent,  of  the  women  born  think  they 
can  sing;  ninety-nine  per  cent,  of  the  women  who 
think  they  can  sing,  can't." 

"Your  sex  are  almost  as  big  offenders  in  that 
respect,"  said  Bay. 

"Yes,  almost,"  said  the  doctor,  "but  not  quite." 

He  dropped  a  log  of  wood  on  the  fire,  pressing 
it  down  with  his  foot,  and  for  some  time  their  con- 
versation drifted  over  a  variety  of  topics  in  the 
same  vein  of  leisurely  candour. 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  doctor,  abruptly,  break- 
ing a  short  pause,  "why  did  you  come?" 

"Mayn't  I  come  to  see  you?" 

"Yes;  but  it's  not  very  likely." 

"I  want  some  poison,"  said  Bay. 

"You  queer  being,  what  do  you  want  it  for?" 

"Ask  no  questions  and  you  will  get  no  false- 
hoods." 

"I  won't  give  it  on  those  terms  even  to  you." 

"They  are  all  you  will  get." 

"Are  you  in  trouble?" 

"Mind  your  own  business." 

"Come,  Bay — we  are  old  friends — out  with  it." 

"Why  should  I  divulge  to  you  the  most  harrow- 
ing pangs  of  my  heart?" 

"Because  I  insist." 

"Fiend,  I  am  going  to  poison  a  cat." 

"Send  him  to  a  vet." 

255 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"And  have  him  tortured  with  prussic  acid?  You 
once  told  me  of  a  poison  much  quicker  than  that." 

"There  are  not  many." 

"You  said  five  grains  would  kill  a  human  being 
in  ten  minutes." 

The  doctor  reflected.  "Probably  cyanide  of 
potassium,"  he  said. 

"I'll  take  six  pen'orth  of  cyanide  of  potassium," 
said  Bay. 

Her  companion  stirred  the  fire. 

"I'll  take  six  pen'orth  of  cyanide  of  potassium, " 
repeated  Bay,  rapping  her  gloved  hand  upon  the 
arm  of  her  chair. 

The  doctor  looked  at  her.  "Are  you  serious? 
Do  you  really  want  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bay:  "I've  said  it  twice;  if  you  are 
quite  deaf,  I'll  say  it  a  third  time." 

He  got  up  slowly.  "Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know 
if  you  are  to  be  trusted." 

Bay  took  out  a  stiff  hatpin.  "Then  you  had  bet- 
ter take  all  these  pins,  and  come  and  fetch  my  carv- 
ing knives,  and  walk  home  with  me  to  see  that  I 
don't  go  anywhere  near  the  river." 

The  doctor  laughed  drily  and  walked  across  the 
room.  The  walls  were  lined  with  bottles,  but  he 
went  to  a  closed  cupboard  and  unlocked  it  with  a 
key  strung  on  a  bunch,  which  he  drew  from  his 
pocket.  He  took  out  a  bottle  containing  powder. 

256 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Sure  you  want  it  for  that?"  he  said,  holding  the 
bottle  in  his  hand. 

"Sure,"  said  Bay.  "Give  me  plenty.  If  I  made 
a  mistake  and  spilt  any,  it  would  be  hideous  not 
to  have  any  more  to  put  it  out  of  its  torture." 

He  removed  the  stopper.  "You  are  such  a 
strange  being :  I  wouldn't  trust  you  not  to  murder 
me." 

"I  won't  promise,"  said  Bay.  "At  present  you 
are  good  enough  to  live." 

He  poured  some  of  the  powder  into  a  small  box, 
made  it  up  into  a  packet,  sealed  it,  and  labelled  it 
with  a  big  red  label. 

"That  is  enough,  I  suppose?"  said  Bay.  "You 
haven't  been  stingy?" 

"Enough  to  kill  a  dozen  cats,  and  me  in  addi- 
tion, if  you  change  your  mind." 

"Has  it  much  taste  ?" 

"What  does  that  matter?" 

"Can  I  put  it  into  its  food?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  he  won't  notice  it.  But  don't  ask  me 
to  come  and  dine  with  you  for  the  present." 

"Merci."  Bay  took  the  packet  and  stored  it  in 
her  muff.  "How  is  your  wife?" 

"So-so." 

"Temper  still  trying?" 

"I  never  told  you  it  was  trying." 

"No,  but  a  wife's  temper  always  is." 
257 


CYNTHU  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"No  worse  than  a  husband's,  I  daresay,"  said 
the  doctor.  "On  the  whole,  we  run  along  very 
nicely." 

"Yes,  I  think  you  are  let  off  more  easily  than 
you  deserve,"  said  Bay,  examining  him  frankly. 
"It's  fortunate  you  didn't  marry  me,  or  you 
wouldn't  look  so  happy." 

"Really?  Your  husband  appeared  to  bear  the 
infliction  with  strange  fortitude." 

"Appearances  are  deceptive.  I  killed  him  in  five 
years." 

"By  treating  him  too  well.  Come  and  see  my 
wife  and  have  some  tea." 

"Hardy  man!  Don't  you  know  that  a  prior 
flame  is  never  grateful  to  the  soul  of  the  lady  in 
possession?" 

"Come  and  chance  it." 

"What!  with  murder  in  my  muff!  Good-bye. 
Be  as  lenient  to  your  patients  as  you  can." 

She  was  moving  to  the  door. 

"Bay." 

She  turned  round. 

"Give  me  a  kiss." 

"Goat!" 

But  she  kissed  him. 


258 


CHAPTER  XXV 

DURING  the  weeks  which  followed  Bay's  excur- 
sion, Laurence  continued  to  make  progress ;  slowly, 
it  is  true,  but  without  relapse.  Within  a  fortnight 
of  his  arrival  at  the  flat  he  was  strong  enough  to 
get  up  for  a  few  hours  each  day  and  sit  in  a  chair 
in  his  room.  Later,  he  could  walk  across  the  cor- 
ridor and  sit  in  the  drawing-room,  propped  up  with 
cushions. 

The  happiness  of  this  time  was  somewhat 
clouded  for  Cynthia  by  the  growth  of  the  suspicion 
which  had  come  to  her  when  she  found  Bay  sitting 
in  pensive  solitude,  on  the  day  that  Laurence  signed 
the  codicil  to  his  will.  Once  it  had  found  lodgment 
in  her  mind,  small  daily  indications,  unnoticed  or 
uninterpreted  before,  quickly  added  to  it;  incidents 
in  the  past,  too,  which  had  puzzled  her,  became 
intelligible  when  viewed  in  its  light.  By  impercep- 
tible stages  it  ceased  to  be  suspicion,  ceased  to  be 
belief  even,  and  settled  upon  her  as  definite  knowl- 
edge. She  was  acutely  distressed,  but,  in  proportion 
to  the  completeness  of  her  previous  ignorance,  very 

259 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

little  surprised.  Indeed,  she  was  amazed  that  the 
possibility  had  not  occurred  to  her  before.  When 
our  inclinations  are  powerfully  drawn  in  a  particu- 
lar direction,  our  continued  wonder  lies  rather  in 
the  fact  that  the  whole  world  fails  to  share  our 
engagement. 

Cynthia's  conduct  after  her  discovery  displayed 
exquisite  tact.  By  no  word  nor  look  was  her  friend 
permitted  to  suspect  that  her  secret  was  guessed. 
She  even  repressed  the  stronger  flood  of  affection 
and  gratitude  stirred  in  her  by  the  remembrance  of 
all  that  Bay,  with  this  thorn  in  her  flesh,  had  done 
and  was  continuing  to  do  to  promote  Laurence's 
and  her  happiness:  her  overwhelming  desire  to 
express  her  sense  of  that  in  an  access  of  tenderness 
was  restrained,  lest  it  should  savour  ever  so  little 
of  impertinent  solace.  But  by  degrees  she  spent 
more  of  her  time  with  Bay  than  she  had  done  be- 
fore, denying  herself  much  of  Laurence's  society 
to  seek  hers ;  she  did  not  habitually  sit  close  to  him, 
even  if  they  were  alone;  and  when  they  were  all 
three  together  she  quietly  kept  the  conversation 
general.  Only  at  such  times  as  Bay  had  gone  out 
after  definitely  declining  her  companionship — as 
on  the  day  she  visited  the  doctor — did  she  suffer 
herself  to  sit  with  Laurence  in  intimate  tete-a-tete; 
and  even  so  her  joy  was  shadowed  and  incomplete, 
tinctured  with  a  sense  of  meanness. 

260 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

But  she  was  fully  conscious  that  all  this  only 
touched  the  surface  of  things.  She  could  afford 
to  be  generous ;  she  could  afford  to  deny  herself  in 
these  trifling  details.  She  realised — what  many 
people  curiously  fail  to  realise — that  for  the  victor 
to  be  magnanimous  is  no  virtue. 

On  the  contrary,  it  adds  in  many  cases  to  the 
gratification  of  victory.  A  man  who  has  knocked 
down  another  in  a  boxing  match  and  then  holds 
out  his  hand  with  a  splendid  gesture  of  good-fel- 
lowship is  merely  an  ass.  He  is  so  elated  he  would 
give  his  hand  cordially  to  the  lowest  ruffian  who 
would  take  the  trouble  to  shake  it.  We  are  told, 
however,  that  this  is  "true  British  sportsmanship," 
that  it  shows  "the  spirit  which  animates  these 
friendly  tussles."  It  could  well  be  admitted  if  the 
initiative  were  on  the  other  side.  If  the  man  who 
has  been  knocked  down  can  get  up  and  offer  his 
hand  first  to  his  opponent,  assuredly  he  has  grit  in 
him  of  no  common  order. 

Cynthia  was  under  no  complacent  illusion.  She 
was  quite  aware  that  if  she  were  to  deserve  honour 
she  must  go  far  beyond  superficial  generosities  and 
self-sacrifice.  It  was  patent  that,  although  she 
could  not  be  Laurence's  wife,  her  presence  would 
constitute  an  effectual  bar  against  anyone  else  be- 
coming such.  If  she  withdrew  from  his  life  he 
could  marry  Bay.  But  would  he?  She  put  the 

261 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

question  again  and  again  to  herself,  to  salve  her 
conscience.  She  knew  he  would  not :  she  knew  that 
all  the  love  of  his  being  utterly  and  immutably  was 
hers. 

Nevertheless,  her  mind,  continually  troubling, 
sought  direct  assurance. 

"Laurence,  supposing  I  were  to  die?"  she  said 
to  him  one  day. 

"You !"  Laurence  examined  her  manifestly  un- 
ailing  person  with  smiling  admiration.  "A  moment 
ago  I  was  thinking  you  were  looking  particularly 
well."  His  voice  had  not  yet  recovered  its  ring, 
and  his  eyes  appeared  to  see  you  from  a  distance. 
They  were  eyes  which  had  been  reclaimed  from  the 
deep  terrors  of  mental  loss. 

"I  want  to  know,"  persisted  Cynthia. 

"I  should  die,  too." 

"But  truly?"  She  bent  towards  him,  her  hands 
clasped  upon  her  knee. 

"I  suppose  I  should  leave  this  fretful  island," 
he  replied,  "and  go  on  helping  them  to  build  rail- 
ways at  the  other  end  of  the  world." 

"Wouldn't  you  marry?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because "    He  broke  off.     "Cynthia,  you 

are  fishing  outrageously,"  he  asserted  with  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  well -"    She  took  his  hand  and  pressed 

262 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

it  to  her  softly  flushing  cheek.  "Oh,  well " 

She  could  not,  or  would  not,  find  words  to  express 
the  unquenchable  demand  of  her  heart.  "Why 
didn't  you  marry  before  ?" 

"That  is  a  question  which  shows  the  feminine 
point  of  view,"  said  Laurence.  "A  man  doesn't 
take  cold  counsel  with  himself  about  marriage,  as 
he  would  about  buying  a  house  or  choosing  a  pro- 
fession. It  comes  inevitably  or  not  at  all.  I  fancy 
every  man  looks  upon  himself  as  a  confirmed  bache- 
lor until  he  sees  a  wife  on  the  other  side  of  the 
breakfast-table." 

Cynthia  began  to  laugh.  "It  must  be  rather  a 
shock  to  him,"  she  said. 

"No,  it  is  not,"  said  Laurence,  "because  by  that 
time  he  has  discovered  that  the  person  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table  is  good  enough  to  make  any  insti- 
tution tolerable." 

"Well,  how  did  you  come  to  live  so  long  without 
finding  it  inevitable?"  persisted  Cynthia.  "You?" 

"Do  I  strike  you  as  so  susceptible?" 

She  blushed  a  little  again  and  laughed,  but  did 
not  answer. 

"All  the  women  in  the  world  are  not  Cynthias," 
he  said  softly,  holding  her  hand;  "nor  one  single 
other  that  I  ever  met." 

Slowly  his  disengaged  arm  slid  about  her  waist 
263 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

and  gathered  her  close.  She  bent  to  him  and  their 
lips  met. 

"I  will  tell  you  just  this,"  Laurence  proceeded, 
when  the  silence  had  lasted  many  minutes :  "A  man 
who  has  been  generously  treated  by  fortune  with 
regard  to  material  things  finds  his  eyes  very  aston- 
ishingly opened  to  your  gentle  sex." 

"You  are  rather  unjust,"  said  Cynthia.  "How 
can  you  tell  what  is  the  under-life  of  any  woman 
you  meet?  Perhaps  she  has  had  to  make  with  her 
own  hands  the  pretty  dress  you  see  her  in.  She 
may  have  been  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of 
rigid  pinching,  at  least  of  careful  economy,  where 
numberless  pleasant  and  desirable  things  have  had 
to  be  consistently  eschewed  through  lack  of  means. 
I  don't  think  you  ought  to  condemn  her  if  life  on 
easier  and  brighter  lines  appears  to  have  attrac- 
tions for  her — especially,"  Cynthia  added,  after  a 
pause,  "when  it  would  be  passed  with  a  person  with 
a  few — one  or  two — small — amiable  qualities." 

Laurence  looked  at  her  with  a  deprecating  smile, 
resting  his  head  upon  the  cushions  of  his  chair. 
"Upon  that  point,"  he  said,  "I  am  afraid  your 
gentle  judgment  can  scarcely  be  accepted  as  im- 
partial." 

Cynthia  dropped  her  eyes  before  his.  "I  don't 
know  much  about  logic,"  she  said,  "but  I  think 
that  is  what  is  called  arguing  from  effect  to  cause." 

264 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Their  conversation  was  interrupted  at  this  stage 
by  a  ring  at  the  front  door  and  the  arrival  of  the 
doctor  who  was  attending  Laurence.  He  was  a 
grave,  elderly  man,  inclined  to  take  a  cautious  view. 
He  had  always  refused  to  say,  in  spite  of  anxious 
pressure,  that  Laurence's  recovery  was  definitely 
assured.  To-day,  however,  his  report  was  excep- 
tionally favourable.  The  fear  of  a  relapse,  he 
said,  might  now  be  considered  to  have  passed. 

This  intelligence  drove  every  other  thought 
from  Cynthia's  head.  When  Bay  came  in  she  met 
her  in  the  hall. 

"Such  good  news,"  she  cried  joyously:  "the  doc- 
tor says  Laurence  is  out  of  danger  at  last." 

The  following  afternoon  Bay  sat  upon  one  of 
the  seats  on  the  tow-path  between  Kew  and  Rich- 
mond. A  raw  wind  swept  down  the  river.  She 
was  not  exceptionally  warmly  clad,  but  she  did  not 
appear  to  notice  the  cold.  She  gazed  steadfastly 
and  a  little  sternly  across  the  water  at  the  chimneys 
and  buildings  of  Isleworth.  A  cat  lay  curled  on 
her  lap  and  some  sacking  was  folded  on  the  seat 
beside  her.  Occasionally  the  cat  mewed  and  she 
petted  it.  It  was  an  old,  emaciated  creature,  des- 
tined immediately  for  the  lethal  chamber,  for 
which  she  had  obtained  a  few  hours'  respite. 

"Poor  puss  I"  she  said  aloud,  "you  have  to  die 
265 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

for  my  conscience.  You  are  very  old  and  very 
ailing,  but,  I  suppose,  like  everything  that  breathes, 
you  would  rather  go  on  living,  if  you  could.  .  .  . 
If  you  could,"  she  said  again,  after  a  pause. 

She  had  been  sitting  nearly  half  an  hour  on  the 
seat,  when  she  stopped  a  labouring  man  who  was 
passing  and  bribed  him  to  assist  her  in  the  work  of 
destruction.  His  advice,  unasked,  but  instantly 
forthcoming,  was  to  tie  the  animal  in  the  sack  and 
hurl  it  alive  into  the  river;  but  Bay  would  have 
none  of  it.  She  made  him  wrap  the  sack  about  it 
and  hold  it  while  she  dropped  a  little  of  the  poison 
on  its  tongue.  Its  struggle  was  over  very  quickly. 
Then  she  sent  the  man  away  with  his  half-crown 
and  placed  his  burden  on  the  seat.  She  dropped 
on  her  knees  in  the  mud  beside  the  stiffening  corpse 
of  the  little  creature  which,  a  few  moments  before, 
had  lain  breathing  and  warm  on  her  lap,  and  wet- 
ted its  soft  coat  with  her  tears. 

Quite  early  the  next  morning  Cynthia  noticed 
Bay  putting  on  her  hat  and  coat. 

"You  didn't  tell  me  you  were  going  out,"  she 
said  a  little  reproachfully.  "May  I  come  with 
you?" 

"If  you  like,"  said  Bay,  calmly.  "I  am  going 
to  see  your  husband." 

266 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Harvey!"     cried     Cynthia,     in    amazement. 
'Good  gracious,  why?" 
"To  tell  him  the  good  news." 


267 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  distance  between  her  flat  and  the  house  in 
Neville  Road  was  nearly  two  miles,  but  Bay  chose 
to  walk.  It  was  bright  and  cold;  the  pavements 
had  been  swept  dry  by  the  wind.  She  made  her 
way  up  long  side  streets  and  across  busy  thorough- 
fares at  an  even  pace,  never  stopping,  rarely  glan- 
cing to  right  or  left.  Her  face  had  set  in  the  same 
steadfast,  rather  stern  mould  as  when  she  gazed 
over  the  river  at  the  Isleworth  chimneys. 

On  reaching  the  house  she  paused  a  moment  on 
the  doorstep  and  then  rang  the  bell.  It  was  some 
time  before  it  was  answered.  Visitors  were  not 
expected  in  these  days,  especially  morning  visitors. 
Harvey  had  no  difficulty  with  the  servant  question : 
his  staff  found  his  service  entirely  congenial  to 
their  souls  and  showed  no  disposition  to  leave  it. 
They  arranged  their  movements  very  much  as  they 
chose  and  ordered  the  house  upon  lines  which  ap- 
peared to  them  to  meet  reasonable  requirement. 

Bay  was  at  length  admitted  by  a  maid  who  had 
obviously  made  some  hasty  readjustment  of  her 

268 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

toilet,  and  was  shown  into  the  dining-room.  X 
masculine  eye  might  not  have  observed  much 
change  in  it.  To  Bay  there  were  manifold  signs 
of  the  absence  of  a  mistress.  A  thin  layer  of  dust 
lay  on  the  sideboard;  a  cobweb  hung  across  a  cor- 
ner of  the  cornice;  two  empty  tumblers  had  not 
been  removed  from  the  mantelpiece.  Bay  did  not 
sit  down.  She  put  a  foot  on  the  fender  and  looked 
into  the  fire.  Twice,  while  she  stood  so,  she  slipped 
two  fingers  of  her  left  hand  inside  the  glove  of  her 
right. 

Harvey  came  in,  looking  a  little  scared.  He  had 
overcome  to  some  extent  his  dread  of  the  front- 
door bell,  but  this  unexpected  visit  from  Bay,  sug- 
gesting an  obvious  cause,  had  shocked  his  nerves. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  a  face  abso- 
lutely inscrutable.  This  seemed  to  confirm  his 
fears. 

"He  is  dead?"  he  asked  sharply,  forgetting  to 
greet  her. 

"What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  he  was?" 

His  face  blanched. 

"He  is  not  dead,"  said  Bay.  "He  is  better;  he 
is  out  of  danger."  She  gazed  at  him  steadily. 
Anyone  but  Harvey  would  have  seen  the  deep  con- 
tempt which  lay  behind  her  eyes. 

He  immediately  assumed  an  air  of  magnanim- 
ity. "I'm  awfully  glad,"  he  said,  in  his  jerky 

269 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

tones.  "I  shouldn't  have  liked  him  to  have  died. 
It  was  an  awkward  position  to  be  in;  I  did  the  only 
thing  I  could;  but  I  shouldn't  have  liked  him  to 
have  died." 

"You  let  him  off  as  lightly  as  circumstances  per- 
mitted?" Bay  was  controlling  herself  with  an 
immense  effort. 

"I  did  the  only  thing  I  could,"  Harvey  repeated 
with  great  dignity,  missing  the  sarcasm. 

Bay  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak  again.  The 
time  for  speaking  had  not  come.  From  somewhere 
deep  within  her  a  single  word  was  beating  up  into 
her  gripped  teeth :  "Ass !  Ass !  Ass !"  It  was  beat- 
ing up  while  her  right  hand  slowly  opened  and 
closed  on  the  substance  within  her  glove. 

"I  expect  you  have  come  to  talk  things  over," 
Harvey  proceeded  abruptly.  "Cynthia  has  sent 
you.  I  thought  it  was  wisest  to  let  her  find  out  for 
herself.  I've  been  thinking  it  over.  Of  course, 
things  could  never  be  the  same;  but  I  shouldn't 
like  her  life  to  be  ruined — I  shouldn't  like  to  think 
of  her  going  completely  to  the  bad.  Only,  if  I  took 
her  back,  it  would  have  to  be  a  sine  qua  non  that 
she  never  saw  this  scoundrel  again.  That  would 
have  to  be  a  sine  qua  non." 

Again,  no  one  but  Harvey,  surely,  could  have 
finished  such  a  speech  with  Bay's  steady  gaze  upon 
him.  If  he  had  had  a  chance  before,  his  fate  was 

270 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

now  irrevocably  sealed.  She  opened  her  lips  to 
speak,  but  closed  them  again,  choking  back  a  tor- 
rent of  words. 

"We  won't  talk  about  that  at  present,"  she  said. 
She  pulled  a  chair  from  beneath  the  table  and  sat 
down.  "I  have  walked  two  miles.  I  should  like 
some  wine." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Harvey,  much  perturbed 
to  be  found  inhospitable.  "What  will  you  have — 
port,  claret,  cherry-brandy?  I'll  tell  you  what," 
he  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  glittering  smile:  "I 
think  we  ought  to  have  a  bottle  of  champagne  to 
celebrate  your  news." 

"Very  well,"  said  Bay. 

"I'll  go  and  get  it,"  said  Harvey.  "I  won't  be 
a  minute."  His  hand  hovered  a  moment  over  the 
door-handle — already,  at  eleven  o'clock,  his  hand 
hovered  a  moment  over  the  handle — then  he  turned 
it  and  went  out. 

He  was  not  parsimonious.  Among  his  glut  of 
petty  vices  he  was  not  parsimonious.  Bay  faith- 
fully put  it  to  his  credit.  Out  of  the  dense  and 
tangled  thicket  of  vanities  and  inutilities  that  soli- 
tary light  glimmered — his  one  redeeming  virtue. 
It  flickered  for  a  moment  and  then  was  choked  by 
the  rank  herbage.  He  was  a  swine,  and  a  sneak, 
and  a  lying  wind-bag,  and  a  contemptible  husband. 
He  had  called  Cynthia  coarse  and  struck  Laurence 

271 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

a  coward's  blow.  He  had  called  Cynthia  coarse 
because  she  was  willing  to  be  a  wife !  Surely  his 
cup  was  full. 

She  did  not  stir  from  her  place  at  the  table  while 
he  was  away.  Once  she  closed  her  eyes ;  once  again 
she  felt  in  her  glove.  Otherwise  she  made  no 
movement  of  any  kind. 

Presently  a  maid  came  in  with  two  glasses  on  a 
salver.  As  she  went  out  she  glanced  at  Bay.  She 
was  followed  by  Harvey  with  the  bottle. 

He  removed  the  wire.    Then  he  cut  the  string. 

"It's  rather  a  knack,  getting  a  champagne  cork 
out,"  he  said.  "I'm  a  pretty  good  hand  at  it.  I'm 
very  strong  in  the  wrists."  It  came  away  with  a 
report,  and  white  foam  brimmed  over  the  lip  of 
the  bottle.  "I'm  very  strong  in  the  wrists,"  he 
said  again. 

Bay  got  up.  He  filled  the  two  glasses  with  the 
hissing  wine. 

"I  should  like  a  biscuit,"  she  said  steadily. 

Harvey  turned  and  bent  down  to  a  cupboard  in 
the  sideboard.  Calmly  and  quickly  Bay  drew  a 
small  white  packet  from  her  glove  and,  with  a 
hand  that  barely  shook,  slid  the  contents  into  one 
of  the  glasses. 

As  Harvey  rose  again  and  placed  the  biscuits 
on  the  table,  she  picked  up  the  innocuous  glass. 
Suddenly  her  eyes  flashed. 

272 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Drink  to  your  luck!"  she  cried.  "You  have 
escaped  the  gallows." 

Harvey's  mild  eyes  glistened  with  his  foolish, 
pleased  smile.  He  raised  the  glass — a  little  shakily 
— and  drained  it. 

"But  you  will  be  dead  in  ten  minutes" 

He  turned  livid  beneath  his  bronzed  skin.  Then 
his  feature  "elaxed  in  a  sickly  smile. 

"You  quite  frightened  me,"  he  said;  "I  almost 
thought  you  were  in  earnest." 

"You  will  be  dead  In  ten  minutes" 

No  one  could  look  into  Bay's  steady  eyes  and 
doubt  it.  The  frightful  truth  crashed  upon  Har- 
vey with  a  shock  of  deranging  terror.  Death! 
death ! — that  inconceivable,  shuddering  dread 
which  had  made  him  blanch  suddenly  in  the  dark- 
ness as  he  lay  awake  at  night,  that  unthinkable 
catastrophe  which  had  befallen  others,  but  which 
had  seemed  too  appalling  to  be  possible  to  him, 
whose  shadow  he  had  put  from  him  as  remote  and 
vague — death  faced  him  inexorably  and  now.  He 
must  go  through  that  awful  gate — he — he — Har- 
vey Elwes.  Nothing  could  save  him.  He  knew  it. 
Nothing.  Nothing  could  save  him.  O  God ! 

"You  hellish  woman!"  he  yelled,  "you  have  de- 
liberately poisoned  me !" 

Bay  set  down  her  untasted  glass.  Her  little 
hands  hung  clenched  by  her  sides. 

273 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Coward — sneak — drunkard — wastrel  —  weak- 
ling, I  have  poisoned  you." 

Demented  with  terror,  he  raised  his  fist  and 
drove  it  straight  at  her  face.  To  be  just  to  him, 
it  was  an  act  he  could  not  have  committed  in  sanity. 
Bay  was  prepared,  however.  She  dodged  and  the 
blow  merely  grazed  her  temple.  He  rushed  madly 
for  the  door.  But  she  had  anticipated  that  also, 
and  reached  it  first.  Harvey  saw  it  closed  in  his 
face  and  heard  the  key  turned  in  the  lock. 

He  wrenched  at  the  knob,  but  could  not  force 
the  bolt,  and  then  ran  wildly  to  the  window,  sweep- 
ing down  furniture  in  his  path.  Failing,  in  his 
mad  violence,  to  lift  the  sash,  he  drove  his  arm 
through  a  pane  with  a  shivering  crash.  The  next 
instant  he  had  recoiled,  and  a  shriek  burst  from 
hi_s  lips. 

It  was  not  his  cut  hand  that  had  drawn  it.  It 
was  the  first-felt  potent  working  of  the  poison.  His 
actions  thenceforth  are  pitiable  to  describe.  In  an 
agony,  now,  of  physical  pain,  he  pressed  the  bell 
frenziedly,  and  then  cast  himself  upon  the  ground, 
literally  biting  the  dust.  He  jumped  to  his  feet 
again  with  startling  suddenness,  and  set  to  race, 
back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  up  and  down  the 
room — a  wild,  helpless^  demented  figure,  his  face 
hardly  to  be  recognised.  He  hurled  himself,  rav- 

274 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

ing,  against  the  couch,  in  a  kneeling  posture,  bit 
into  the  upholstery,  and  kicked  upon  the  ground. 

His  first  terrible  shriek  had  reached  Bay  as  she 
was  passing  through  the  front  door.  With  that 
cry  in  her  ears  she  walked  two  hundred  yards  down 
the  street.  Then  her  courage  at  the  last  moment 
failed  her.  She  ran  frantically  back  to  the  house 
and  down  to  the  basement,  calling  to  the  servants. 
They  were  huddled  together  in  the  passage,  won- 
dering and  scared  at  the  sounds  from  the  room 
above. 

"One  of  you  rush  for  a  doctor,"  she  cried.  "Fly. 
rAnd  give  me  some  soap-suds — at  once." 

A  white-faced  girl  hurried  upstairs  to  put  on  her 
hat.  Two  minutes  later  Bay  returned  to  the  dining- 
room  with  a  bowl  of  suds.  She  looked  towards 
Harvey,  and  immediately  set  down  the  useless 
bowl. 

He  was  still.  He  had  died  in  the  position  into 
which  he  had  thrown  himself,  on  his  knees  before 
the  sofa ;  but  lower  than  at  first,  cramped,  screwed 
almost  to  the  ground,  as  though  appealing  in  utter 
obeisance  to  Heaven,  in  his  last  moment,  for  for- 
giveness of  his  foolish  and  wasted  life. 


275 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

EVERY  moment  of  time  there  is  pain  in  the 
world.  There  is  never  an  instant  of  remission. 
While  I  peacefully  watch  the  ink  drying  on  these 
opening  sentences,  wondering  how  I  shall  tell  you 
what  I  have  to  tell  in  this  chapter,  while  you,  many 
weeks  or  months  or  years  later,  sit  (I  trust)  in 
painless  ease,  following  the  printed  text,  some- 
where someone  is  struggling  in  the  throes  of  death, 
somewhere  a  woman  is  enduring  the  indescribable 
agony  of  childbirth,  somewhere  a  fellow-creature 
is  lying  with  unthinkable  open  flesh  beneath  a  sur- 
geon's knife.  Somewhere,  too,  shrinking  beasts 
are  being  forced  into  abattoirs  to  provide  our  food. 

During  the  terrible  minutes  of  Harvey's  death 
scene,  men  were  moving  briskly  about  their  daily 
work,  barmaids  were  chatting  lightly  with  early 
customers,  fashionable  women  were  eating  languid 
late  breakfasts,  Cynthia  was  sitting  composedly 
near  Laurence's  couch,  reading  aloud  to  him  from 
the  Times. 

His  head  was  buttressed  with  pillows,  and  Cyn- 
276 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

thia,  in  spite  of  strong  and  repeated  protests,  had 
spread  a  rug  over  his  legs.  Laurence  was  not  what 
is  called  a  good  patient.  He  was  not  sufficiently 
amenable  to  doctors'  and  nurses'  orders ;  he  wanted 
to  return  instanter  to  his  ordinary  mode  of  life,  to 
do  things  which  the  elderly  physician  reprobated 
with  incredulous  horror;  frequently  he  not  only 
wanted  to  do  them,  but  managed  surreptitiously  to 
effect  his  purpose.  Once  Cynthia  had  returned  after 
a  short  absence  to  discover  him  out  of  his  chair,  at- 
tempting hurriedly  to  replace  in  a  despatch-box  a 
bundle  of  miscellaneous  papers,  covered  with  sur- 
veys and  sections  and  other  engineering  detail.  She 
had  found  him,  moreover,  with  a  swimming  and 
throbbing  head  and  with  a  tendency,  for  the  rest  of 
the  day,  to  become  light  and  rambling  in  his  con- 
versation. On  that  occasion  she  had  held  the 
papers  over  the  fire  until  he  promised  not  to  look 
at  them  again  without  her  permission. 

To-day  he  was  inclined  to  be  fairly  tractable, 
and  after  a  merely  formal  declaration  that  he  was 
perfectly  qualified  to  read  the  Times  for  himself, 
had  consented  to  have  it  read  to  him.  Nothing, 
of  course,  no  reader's  voice,  however  sweet  it  may 
be,  can  compensate  for  the  loss  of  the  vague  de- 
light there  is  in  holding  the  sheets  of  a  newspaper 
in  one's  own  fingers,  in  the  ability  to  pick  and 
choose  on  a  moment's  fancy  among  its  contents. 

277 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Still,  with  Cynthia  for  guide,  it  was  not  an  unpleas- 
ant method  of  assimilating  the  day's  news.  She 
did  not  turn  instinctively  to  the  Society  notes  and 
the  divorce  courts :  she  could  read  impersonal  mat- 
ter with  interest,  and  discuss  it  with  intelligence. 
They  wandered  from  topics  in  the  paper  to  con- 
tiguous subjects,  and  thence,  through  devious  rami- 
fications, to  themes  having  no  immediately  recog- 
nisable connection  with  the  starting  point.  In  the 
midst  of  a  discussion  on  religious  systems,  attrib- 
utable originally  to  an  article  on  airships,  they 
heard  Bay's  step  in  the  passage. 

She  came  straight  into  the  drawing-room.  There 
was  an  unusual  light  in  her  eyes,  but  her  face  was 
calm  and  stern  and  her  manner  restrained.  She 
took  off  her  hat,  standing  before  a  mirror,  and 
threw  it,  with  her  coat,  upon  a  chair. 

"You  two  can  take  hands  and  go  into  Eden 
now,"  she  said,  almost  roughly;  "I  have  opened 
the  gates." 

They  stared  at  her,  mystified. 

"Do  you  hear?"  She  spoke  like  an  angry  school- 
mistress to  inattentive  children.  "You  can  stray 
down  all  the  flowery  by-paths;  you  can  sit  in  the 
glades  and  bask  by  the  streams,  and  never  come 
out  again — never." 

Cynthia  got  up.     "What  do  you  mean  by  this 
278 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

fantastic  talk,  Bay?"  she  said,  with  anxiety  in  her 
voice. 

Bay  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire  and  sat  down. 

"Idiots!  Imbeciles!"  She  poked  the  coals  into 
a  flame.  "Harvey.  Elwes  is  dead." 

There  was  a  still  pause. 

"Dead?"  said  Cynthia.    "Dead?* 

"I  have  told  you,"  said  Bay.  She  held  her  hands 
to  the  blaze. 

"But "  A  dizzy  mist  quivered  about  Cyn- 
thia's faculties.  "He  was  not  ill.  Has  there  been 
some  accident?" 

"No,"  said  Bay,  steadily:  "premeditated  mur- 
der." 

Cynthia  put  her  hands  to  her  bosom.  She  was 
still  dazed  by  an  atmosphere  of  unreality. 

Bay  did  not  turn,  did  not  move,  did  not  speak. 
After  an  interval,  Cynthia  found  her  voice  again. 
There  was  a  slight  tremor  in  it.  "Is  this  true,  Bay? 
Please  tell  me  everything  clearly.  You  are  so 
strange.  I  cannot  understand  you." 

Bay  turned  on  her  almost  contemptuously. 
"Dolt!"  she  cried.  "Should  I  tell  you  lies?  I? 
I  ? —  who  have  just  set  you  free." 

The  amazing  interpretation  made  its  way  to 
Cynthia's  intelligence.  "You!"  The  word  came 
from  unbreathing  lips  in  a  slow,  deep  tone. 
"You— have— killed— him  ?" 

279 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Bay  drew  her  chair  closer  to  the  fire,  and  again 
stretched  her  hands  to  it.  Suddenly  she  shivered. 
"Yes,  I  have  killed  him." 

"I  don't  believe  you,'*  Cynthia  shouted.  "Are 
you  mad?" 

"Mad?    I  wonder.    I  think  so." 

""She  is  speaking  the  truth,"  said  Laurence, 
quietly.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken. 

Slowly  Cynthia's  mind  absorbed  the  incredible 
fact.  She  stood  motionless,  her  breath  drawn  deep- 
ly, her  eyes  fixed  upon  Bay  with  a  fascinated  gaze. 
She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  turned  to  stone.  The 
powers  of  thought,  of  sensation,  of  expression 
seemed  to  have  left  her. 

Her  lips  opened  after  a  shorter  interval  than  she 
supposed,  and  her  formal  words  strained  through 
the  charged  air  in  a  tense  whisper:  "You  have 
killed — my  husband?" 

A  dull  silence  followed,  and  then  Cynthia's  voice 
rose — rose  to  a  shout.  "Bay,  why — why  have  you 
done  this?" 

Bay  swung  round  with  burning  eyes.  "Because 
he  was  a  coward  and  not  fit  to  live,  and  because  I 
hated  him." 

"It  was  not"  cried  Cynthia,  "it  was  not,  Bay." 
Suddenly  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  her 
and  clutched  at  her  clothing.  "It  was  to  set  me 
free — you  said  so  just  now.  You  have  taken  this 

280 


CYNTHIA  IN  \THE  WILDERNESS 

appalling  load  on  yourself  to  set  me  free.  OK,  Bay 
— Bay — Bay,"  she  cried  in  an  agony,  "I  would 
rather  the  world  had  thought  me  the  lowest,  vilest 
woman  that  ever  breathed  than  this — than  that 

you — you Oh-h  I"  She  dropped  her  face  in 

Bay's  lap  and  broke  into  a  torrent  of  sobs. 

Bay  looked  straight  over  her  drooped  form  into 
vacancy,  acute  emotion  in  her  face,  fiercely  con- 
trolled— moved  almost  beyond  her  strength,  yet 
determined  to  endure. 

"You  are  wrong,  dearest,"  she  said,  forcing  the 
words  through  her  choked  throat. 

After  a  short  pause,  to  make  sure  of  herself,  she 
went  on :  "You  need  not  vex  your  dear  soul.  Your 
freedom  was  a  small  thing  among  many  that  went 
into  the  balance  against  Harvey  Elwes.  He  signed 
his  own  death-warrant — slowly." 

"But  you  only  saw  the  writing  because  you  loved 
me,"  said  Cynthia,  vehemently,  lifting  up  her  wet, 
stressed  face. 

"That  was  not  all." 

The  quietly  uttered  words  recalled  to  Cynthia's 
mind,  with  a  shock,  her  lately  gained  knowledge — 
strangely  forgotten  the  last  day  or  two.  In  its 
sudden  light  she  gazed  up  at  Bay,  not  merely  with 
marvelling  cognition,  not  only  with  a  personal 
feeling  too  deep  for  words,  with  awe,  dazed  by 

281 


CYNTHIA  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

the  revelation  of  a  quality  of  self-abnegation  sub- 
lime and  almost  terrible. 

All  these  happenings,  since  Bay's  entrance, 
though  they  have  taken  long  in  the  telling,  oc- 
curred in  a  very  few  minutes.  Laurence  had  only 
once  spoken,  but  his  mind  had  been  working.  It 
was  sufficiently  plain  to  him  that  a  situation  had 
been  reached  which  demanded  instant  action.  He 
now  quietly  assumed  the  direction  of  affairs  from 
his  invalid  couch.  Sentiment  of  all  kind  was  exor- 
cised from  his  mind,  leaving  it  coldly  intent  upon 
the  urgent  practical  necessity.  The  two  women 
became,  for  the  time  being,  no  more  than  his  gangs 
of  coolies — raw  energy  to  be  organised  and  or- 
dered. 

"Has  anything  been  discovered  yet?"  he  asked. 

"Probably  not,"  said  Bay,  without  showing 
much  interest.  "The  maids  were  scared.  I  told 
one  to  go  for  a  doctor,  but  stopped  her  before  she 
started." 

"Give  me  a  Bradshaw,"  he  said. 

Cynthia  fetched  one  and  handed  it  to  him. 

He  turned  the  pages.  "There  is  a  boat-train 
leaves  Charing  Cross  at  two-twenty."  He  looked 
at  his  watch.  "It  is  now  five  minutes  to  one.  You 
must  catch  it." 

Bay  said  nothing. 

"I  shall  go,  too,"  said  Cynthia. 
282 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

His  decision  wavered  before  the  danger  it  would 
involve  for  her. 

But  the  next  moment  his  quiet,  impersonal  man- 
ner returned.  "Yes,  it  is  best,  I  think.  You  are 
an  accessory  after  the  fact  in  any  case :  we  both  are. 
And  you  will  be  away  from  questions.  You  will 
have  to  travel  by  yourselves :  I  should  only  hamper 
you  in  my  present  state.  When  this  has  blown 
over,  and  I  can  get  about,  I  shall  join  you  by  a 
circuitous  route.  Don't  write  to  me  direct:  enclose 
letters  under  cover  to  Frank.  Seal  even  those.  I 
shall  send  messengers  to  Calais  to  post  my  replies." 
He  handed  Cynthia  a  key  on  a  bunch.  "Get  my 
cheque-book:  it  is  in  the  despatch-box.  There  is 
no  time  to  waste." 

She  brought  it  him  in  less  than  a  minute. 

"Be  putting  your  things  on  while  I  write  the 
cheque,"  he  said.  "You  will  have  to  go  to  the 
bank  yourself.  And  pack  a  few  clothes.  You 
can't  take  too  many." 

She  put  a  small  table  beside  him,  with  pens  and 
ink,  and  hurried  away.  In  a  very  short  time  she 
was  back  again,  dressed  for  the  open  air. 

Laurence  gave  her  the  cheque.  "Get  all  gold,'* 
he  said;  "and  change  it  gradually  as  you  move 
from  place  to  place.  Keep  the  cab  when  you  come 
back." 

"All  gold,"  said  Cynthia.  She  looked  round 
283 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

for  a  moment  at  the  door.    Then  she  went  through 
and  closed  it  behind  her. 

Bay  was  still  sitting  by  the  fire. 

"You  must  be  packing  your  things,  Bay,"  said 
Laurence.  "You  can't  afford  to  linger." 

"I  never  said  I  was  going,"  said  Bay. 

"You  must,  I'm  afraid.  It  is  the  only  way  of 
meeting  the  situation." 

"And  is  the  flat  to  be  left  to  your  tender  mer- 
cies ?  And  to  whose  mercies  are  you  to  be  left  ?" 

"For  heaven's  sake,  don't  worry  about  those 
trifles,"  exclaimed  Laurence,  almost  sharply.  "I 
don't  think  you  realise  how  serious  the  thing  is." 

"Don't  I  ?"  said  Bay.  "If  the  police  find  me,  I 
shall  be  taken  hence  to  a  certain  place  and  hanged 
by  the  neck  till  I  die.  The  judge  will  put  on  the 
black  cap  and  read  me  a  solemn  lecture  and  tell  me 
to  make  my  peace  with  my  Maker." 

Laurence  turned  his  face  towards  her,  shot  with 
a  sudden  glow  of  keen  admiration.  "Nobody  can 
say  you  haven't  got  grit  in  you,  Bay,"  he  said. 

"Don't  speak  like  that,  or  you'll  make  me  a 
coward.  It's  the  only  thing  that  could." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say." 

He  pondered  the  point,  but  only  for  a  moment ; 
the  practical  necessity  was  too  great  for  vagrant 
reflections. 

284 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Go,"  he  said.  "Go.  I'm  listening  to  hear  that 
confounded  door-bell.  If  they  get  in  before  you 
get  out,  there  will  be  no  hope,  except  from  a  re- 
prieve." 

"Do  you  think  there  is  much  chance  of  a  re- 
prieve?" said  Bay. 

"Go,"  he  commanded  peremptorily. 

"Very  well,"  said  Bay,  "since  you  are  so  in- 
sistent, I  will  go." 

She  rose,  but  without  hurry,  and  walked  quietly 
out  of  the  room. 

Laurence  was  not  a  man  who  allowed  trifles  to 
disturb  him,  or  who  was  apt,  even  in  serious  crises, 
to  be  swayed  by  his  nerves.  His  illness  had  shaken 
him,  however,  and  he  was  still  far  from  recovered. 
This  catastrophe  had  come  upon  him  with  a  greater 
shock  than  he  had  allowed  either  of  the  women  to 
see.  He  knew  that,  until  Bay  was  safely  out  of 
the  country,  there  was  the  utmost  cause  for  extreme 
anxiety.  Even  when  that  had  been  accomplished, 
the  future  showed  before  him,  unglossed,  in  grim, 
uncompromising  tints.  He  saw  the  years  when 
they  would  be  three  fugitives,  fleeing  continually 
from  the  long  arm — pariahs  unable  to  find  refuge 
for  the  soles  of  their  feet.  He  saw  the  skeleton 
in  the  cupboard  that  would  accompany  them;  he 
saw  the  permanent  banishment.  In  the  meanwhile, 
the  sharp  whirr  of  the  bell  was  imminent,  and  time 

285 


CYNTHIA  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

was  passing.  Bay  was  long;  Cynthia  was  long; 
and  he  was  tied  to  his  couch.  If  he  got  up  to  fol- 
low either  of  them  his  head  would  reel. 

At  last  the  door  opened  and  Bay  returned.  But 
she  was  still  hatless  and  coatless. 

"You  have  not  got  your  things  on!"  he  ex- 
claimed incredulously. 

Bay  stood  a  moment  at  the  door.  "I  won't  talk 
trite  rot  about  going  a  longer  journey,"  said  she. 
"I  am  going  no  journey  at  all." 

He  looked  at  her  sharply.  "Good  God,  Bay, 
what  have  you  done?" 

There  was  a  terrible  change  in  her.  Her  face 
was  strained  and  rigid  with  excruciating  physical 
suffering. 

She  went  quickly  up  to  him.  He  had  started  to 
a  sitting  posture. 

"Nothing  matters  now,"  she  cried.  Her  eyes 
shone  through  her  pain.  "Thank  God!  Thank 
God!  At  last  nothing  matters.  I  am  dying." 
She  threw  herself  upon  him,  pressing  him  back  to 
the  pillows. 

He  pushed  her  off,  striving  to  rise  to  his  feet. 
But  she  fought  with  him  fiercely,  and  his  head 
swam. 

"It  is  useless,"  he  heard  her  saying,  as  if  from 
a  long  distance.  "I  know  the  speed  of  this  poison. 
I  have  only  a  few  minutes  to  live.  Laurence — 

286 


CYNTHIA  IN.  THE  WILDERNESS 

Laurence — let  me  spend  them  as  I  like."  She  dis- 
appeared in  a  mist,  and  he  felt  his  head  again  on 
the  pillow  and  her  breath  on  his  face. 

Vision  slowly  returned.  She  was  bending  close 
over  him,  kneeling  by  the  couch,  her  arms  flung 
about  him,  the  uttermost  woman  in  her  burning 
through  her  eyes. 

"Hold  me  tight,"  she  called  to  him.  "Crush 
the  pain  out  of  me,  crush  the  life  out  of  me,  crush 
the  love  out  of  me,  which  is  the  greatest  pain  of 
all." 

The  room  was  still  swimming  about  him.  He 
could  not  speak;  he  could  scarcely  comprehend. 
He  only  knew  that  this  wonderful  woman  was  dy- 
ing and  that  she  wished  him  to  clasp  her.  With 
all  the  strength  he  had  in  him  he  strained  her  in 
his  arms. 

"Hold  me  tight,"  she  said  again:  "tighter — 
tighter — tighter."  Her  lips  were  drawn  to  his. 
Her  voice  came  strong  through  her  agony,  rever- 
berant with  joy — joy  alone,  absolute,  infinite.  "My 
love!  My  love!" 

Her  soul  filled  the  words — passed  in  them 
through  her  lips. 


THE  END 


AFTER  THE 
PARDON 

A  NOVEL 
By  MATILDE  SERAO 


THE  finding  of  a  new  presentation  of 
a  phase  of  human  passions  is  a 
delight  rarely  encountered.  In  this  romance 
of  hearts,  righteous  jealousy  and  satiated 
passions  combine  to  bring  about  an  extra- 
ordinary marital  situation.  And  then,  again 
jealousy  is  responsible  for  both  disaster  and 
happiness. 

Creatures  made  of  miserable  clay  could 
not  comprehend  the  sublimity  of  the  love 
which  sways  the  Latins  and  bends  them  to 
its  desires.  Warm  blood  flows  in  their 
veins.  In  them  the  emotional  nature  and 
the  finer  intelligence  are  ever  at  variance. 
Always  there  is  the  struggle  and  mainly  the 
emotional  is  predominant.  Their  passions 
force  them  beyond  all  laws  and  duties, 
beyond  all  vows. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


WOMAN    HERSELF 


THE  heart  story  of  a  woman  whose  rare 
temperament,  wrought  of  finest 
fibre,  vibrates  at  the  lightest  touch  of  the 
most  delicate  sentiment,  yet  whose  soul 
pours  forth  the  rich  strains  of  the  tenderest 
intense  passion.  In  her,  love  takes  prece- 
dence over  convention  and  law  with  a  joy- 
ousness  undimmed  by  a  consciousness  of 
wrong  to  herself,  yet  not  without  com- 
miseration for  those  who  suffer  for  her 
happiness.  She  believes  that  she  is  intro- 
spective, but  she  looks  only  into  her  heart. 
She  has  the  emotional  capacity  of  a  great 
artiste,  and  with  it  the  moral  irresponsi- 
bility. So  potent  is  the  love  draft  she 
drinks  into  her  heart  that  it  infects  the 
pages  of  the  book  with  a  subtle  insidious 
mental  intoxicant. 

The  author's  grace  of  expression  compels 
us  to  condone  the  perjured  purity  of  her 
heroine's  life. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  $1.25 


THE  ISLE  OF 

TEMPTATION 

A  NOVEL 

By  ARTHUR  STANLEY 
COLLETON 


IN  the  Isle  of  Temptation,  we  offer  a 
novel  of  the  intensest  dramatic  quality, 
a  novel  magnificently  aglow  with  life.  The 
author  is  an  unflinching  realist,  but  one  who 
has  known  how  to  invest  his  unparalleled 
fearlessness  and  truthfulness  with  dignity, 
with  sincerity,  with  sombre  beauty. 

It  is  the  story  of  a  youth  who  came  to 
New  York,  "  that  terrible  enchantress ;"  — - 
whom  the  city  took  into  her  magical  em- 
brace and  fed  with  the  subtle  honey  of  her 
poisonous  blooms. 

The  author  is  especially  powerful  in  his 
delineation  of  female  characters.  We  do 
not  hesitate  to  say  that  Kate  Bathurst,  Lucy 
Treat  and  Clara  Earle  are  women  worthy 
of  Balzac — relentlessly  and  powerfully  pre- 
sented. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


THE  WOMAN,  THE 

MAN  AND  THE 
MONSTER 

A  ROMANCE 
By  CARLETON  DAW 


THE  plot  of  this  novel  is  surprisingly 
unique.  Some  of  the  situations  are 
so  startling  as  fairly  to  take  away  the 
breath.  The  opening  scene  discloses  a 
woman,  stripped  of  clothing,  bound  to  a 
tree.  There  are  such  dramatic  denouements 
as  to  make  the  intrigue  which  is  the  main 
thread  of  the  story  interesting  to  an  intense 
degree.  The  beauty  of  the  heroine,  her  de- 
lightful mentality,  her  quickness  of  wit  and 
perception,  are  all  charming  features  of  the 
story.  And  there  are  romantic  hillside  love 
scenes,  with  kisses  colored  by  the  sunset, 
and  the  daintiest  of  wooings  and  cooings 
with  always  a  mystery  and  a  fearsome 
shadow  in  the  background. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


A  WOMAN  OF 
UNCERTAIN  AGE 

A  NOVEL 
By  MARY  ANNE  BERRY 


OUEER  things  happen  among  the 
SMART  SET;  Newport  is  a  city; 
that  has  its  secrets.  What  is  it  that  really 
happens,  sometimes,  when  all  the  mis- 
chievous little  Cupids  are  in  a  sarcastic 
mood?  the  events  in  the  pages  of  A 
WOMAN  OF  UNCERTAIN  AGE. 

Her  age  was  extremely  uncertain,  to  be 
sure.  Not  so  her  beauty,  her  charm,  her 
passion,  the  mingled  joyousness  and  pathos 
of  her  fate.  jAnd  as  for  her  adventures — 
they  were  quite  too  surprising  to  be  re- 
vealed here. 

The  book  is  no  deliberately  studied  bit  o£ 
sophisticated  art  Fresh,  passionate,  im- 
mediate, it  welled  from  the  author's  heart, 
from  her  rich  and  romantic  experience  of 
life,  from  her  freedom  and  flexibility  of 
spirit.  There  is  not  a  slow  page  in  it,  not 
one  that  is  not  piquante,  brave,  sparkling. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


THE   DIARY   OF  A 
LOST  ONE 

EDITED   BY 
MARGARETS  BOHME 


THERE  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  Diary 
is  a  truthful  record  of  the  actual  life 
of  a  woman  who  had  lived  in  the  "half- 
world."  The  pages  pulsate  with  a  fever  of 
protest;  with  a  longing  for  unachievable 
reconciliation  with  the  world  of  morality. 
It  is  a  pitiful  appeal  to  the  inexorable 
tribunal  of  public  opinion. 

The  publication  of  the  Diary  in  Germany 
called  forth  a  redundance  of  criticism.  It 
was  condemned,  by  some  superficial  minds-, 
for  its  frankness;  but  it  has  been  equally 
praised  by  the  large  majority  of  thoughtful 
readers  who  recognize  in  this  wonderful 
human  document  a  work  which  must  exert 
a  vast  influence  through  the  great  moral 
lesson  it  conveys. 

Every  normal,  thinking,  grown-up  man 
and  woman  should  read  it. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


NEW  POPULAR  EDITION 

THE    TREE    OF 
KNOWLEDGE 

A  DOCUMENT 
By  A  WOMAN 

THE  woman  who  dissects  her  soul  in 
these  vibrant  pages  is,  so  far  as  can 
be  judged,  entirely  frank. 

This  is  not  her  only  merit,  for  her  delight 
in  the  flexibility  of  language  lends  an  exotic 
charm  which,  like  the  scent  of  orchids, 
fatigues  and  delights  the  sense.  Here  we 
have  set  naked  before  us  the  nature  of  a 
woman  steeped  in  the  poisonous  juices  that 
distil  from  the  Tree  of  Knowledge. 

Seeing  that  she  has  no  standards  of  right 
and  wrong,  it  would  be  inaccurate  to  call 
her  immoral.  She  is  literally  non-moral. 
Morality  is  to  her  a  convention ;  Religion  a 
frame  of  mind. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  50  Cents 

THE  STUYVESANT  PRESS, 
156  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York. 


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